STANDARD   EDITION 


HISTORY 


OF 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


BY  H.  A.  TAINE,  D.  C.  L 


Translated  from  the  French   by  H.  Van  Laun 


ILL  USTRA  TED 


VOLUME    I 


PHILADELPHIA 
HENRY        ALTEMUS        COMPANY 


Copyright  1908  b>  Howard  E.  Altemus. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  NEW  EDITION. 

—  •*•  - 

THIS  edition  of  Tuinc's  History  of  English  Literature 
has  been  carefully  revised  and  compared  with  the 
original.  All  the  quotations  have  been  collated  and 
verified  anew,  and  no  trouble  has  been  spared  to  make 
it  as  accurate  as  possible. 

Fur  the  favourable  reception  this  translation  has 
met  with  from  the  press  and  the  public,  I  feei  much 
indebted. 

H.  VAU  LA  UN. 

THE  ACADEMY, 

EDINBURGH, 


2230745 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

MM 

Historical  documents  serve  only  as  a  clue  to  reconstruct 

the  visible  individual 3 

The  outer  man  is  only  a  clue  to  study  the  inner,  invisible 

man 6 

The  state  and  the  actions  of  the  inner  and  invisible  man 
have  their  causes  in  certain  general  ways  of  thought 
and  feeling  ........  10 

Chief  causes  of  thoughts  and  feelings.      Their  historical 

effects 13 

The  three  primordial  forces — 

i.  Race 17 

II.  Surroundings .         .         .         .         .        .         .19 

IIL  Epoch   ........     21 

History    is    a    mechanical    and    psychological    problem. 

Within  certain  limits  man  can  foretell     .         .         .     23 

Production  of  the  results  of  a  primordial  cause.  Common 
elements.  Composition  of  groups.  Law  of  mutual 
dependence.  Law  of  proportional  influences  .  .  25 

Law  of  formation  of  a  group.     Examples  and  indications  .     30 

General  problem  and  future  of  history.  Psychological 
method.  Value  of  literature.  Purpose  in  writing 
this  book  32 


CONTENTS. 

BOOK  L—  THE  SOURCE. 

CHAPTER  L 

Saxons. 


L  Their  original  country  —  Soil,  sea,  sky,  climate  — 
Their  new  country  —  A  moist  land  and  a  thank- 
less soil  —  Influence  of  climate  on  character  .  37 

IL  Their  bodily  structure  —  Food  —  Manners  —  Unculti- 

vated instincts,  German  and  English  .  .  41 

IIL  Noble  instincts  in  Germany  —  The  individual  —  The 
family  —  The  state  —  Religion  —  The  Edda  — 
Tragi-heroic  conception  of  the  world  and  of  man- 
kind ........  49 

IV.  JToble  instincts  in  England  —  Warrior  and  chieftain 
—  Husband  and  wife  —  The  poem  of  Beowulf  — 
Barbarian  society  and  the  barbarian  hero  .  .  58 

v.  Pagan  poems  —  Kind  and  force  of  sentiments  —  Bent 
of  mind  and  speech  —  Force  of  impression  ;  harsh- 
ness of  expression  ......  68 

VL  Christian  poems  —  Wherein  the  Saxons  are  predis- 
posed to  Christianity  —  How  converted  —  Their 
view  of  Christianity  —  Hymns  of  Caedmon  — 
Funeral  hymn  —  Poem  of  Judith  —  Paraphrase  of 
the  Bible  .......  72 

VIL  Why  Latin  culture  took  no  hold  on  the  Saxons  — 
Reasons  drawn  from  the  Saxon  conquest  —  Bede, 
Alcuin,  Alfred  —  Translations  —  Chronicles  — 
Compilations  —  Impotence  of  Latin  writers  — 
Reasons  drawn  from  the  Saxon  character  — 
Adhelm  —  Alcuin  —  Latin  verse  —  Poetic  dia- 
logues —  Bad  taste  of  the  Latin  writers  .  82 


CONTENTS.  ir 

•Mi 

nn.  Contrast  of  German  and  Latin  races — Character  of 
the  Saxon  race — Its  endurance  under  the  Nor- 
man conquest 92 

CHAPTER  II. 

3Tfje  ^ormans. 

i.        Formation  and  character  of  Feudalism  ...       95 

II.  The  Norman  invasion ;  character  of  the  Normans 
— Contrast  with  the  Saxons — The  Normans  are 
French — How  they  became  so — Their  taste  and 
architecture — Their  spirit  of  inquiry  and  their 
literature  —  Chivalry  and  amusements — Their 
tactics  and  their  success 96 

m.  Bent  of  the  French  genius — Two  principal  charac- 
teristics ;  clear  and  consecutive  ideas — Psycho- 
logical form  of  French  genius — Prosaic  histories  ; 
lack  of  colour  and  passion,  ease  and  discursive- 
ness— Natural  logic  and  clearness,  soberness, 
grace  and  delicacy,  refinement  and  cynicism — 
Order  and  charm — The  nature  of  the  beauty  and 
of  the  ideas  which  the  French  have  introduced  .  104 

IT.  The  Normans  in  England — Their  position  and  their 
tyranny  —  They  implant  their  literature  and 
language — They  forget  the  same — Learn  English 
by  degrees — Gradually  English  becomes  galli- 
cised 115 

7.  They  translate  French  works  into  English — Opinion 
of  Sir  John  Mandeville — Layamon,  Robert  of 
Gloucester,  Robert  de  Brunne — They  imitate  in 
English  the  French  literature — Moral  manuals, 
chansons,  fabliaux,  Gestes — Brightness,  frivolity, 
and  futility  of  this  French  literature — Barbarity 
and  ignorance  of  the  feudal  civilisation — Geste 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  and  voyages  of  Sir 
John  Mandeville — Poorness  of  the  literature  in- 
troduced and  implanted  in  England — Why  it  has 
not  endured  on  the  Continent  or  in  England  .  121 

TL  The  Saxons  in  England — Endurance  of  the  Saxon 
nation,  and  formation  of  the  English  constitution 
— Endurance  of  the  Saxon  character,  and  forma- 
tion of  the  English  character  .  .  .  .138 

VIL- ix.  Comparison  of  the  ideal  hero  in  France  and 
England — Fabliaux  of  Reynard,  and  ballads  of 
Robin  Hood — How  the  Saxon  character  makes 
way  for  and  supports  political  liberty — Compa- 
rison of  the  condition  of  the  Commons  in  France 
and  England — Theory  of  the  English  constitu- 
tion, by  Sir  John  Fortescue — How  the  Saxon 
constitution  makes  way  for  and  supports  political 
liberty — Situation  of  the  Church,  and  precursors 
of  the  Reformation  in  England — Piers  Plowman 
and  Wycliffe — How  the  Saxon  character  and  the 
situation  of  the  Norman  Church  made  way  for 
religious  reform — Incompleteness  and  importance 
of  the  national  literature  —  Why  it  has  not 
endured  145 


CHAPTER  III. 

Qfrmgue. 


Chaucer  —  His  education  —  His  political  and  social 
life  —  Wherein  his  talent  was  serviceable  —  He 
paints  the  second  feudal  society  .  .  .170 

How  the  middle  age  degenerated  —  Decline  of  the 
serious  element  in  manners,  books,  and  works  of 
art  —  Need  of  excitement  —  Analogies  of  archi- 
tecture and  literature  .  171 


CONTENTS.  n 

MM 

m.  Wherein  Chaucer  belongs  to  the  middle -age  — 
Romantic  and  ornamental  poems — Le  Roman  de 
la  Rose — Troilus  and  Cressida — Canterbury  Tales 
— Order  of  description  and  events — The  House  of 
Fame  —  Fantastic  dreams  and  visions  —  Love 
poems — Troilus  and  Cressida — Exaggerated  de- 
velopment of  love  in  the  middle  age — Why  the 
mind  took  this  path — Mystic  love — The  Flower 
and  the  Leaf — Sensual  love — Troilus  and  Cressida  173 

iv.  Wherein  Chaucer  is  French — Satirical  and  jovial 
poems — Canterbury  Tales — The  Wife  of  Bath  and 
marriage — The  mendicant  friar  and  religion — 
Buffoonery,  waggery,  and  coarseness  in  the 
middle-age 193 

v.  Wherein  Chaucer  was  English  and  original — Idea 
of  character  and  individual — Van  Eyck  and 
Chaucer  contemporary — Prologue  to  Canterbury 
Tales — Portraits  of  the  franklin,  monk,  miller, 
citizen,  knight,  squire,  prioress,  the  good  clerk — 
Connection  of  events  and  characters — General 
idea — Importance  of  the  same — Chaucer  a  pre- 
cursor of  the  Reformation — He  halts  by  the  way 
— Tediousness  and  Childishness — Causes  of  this 
feebleness — His  prose,  and  scholastic  notion — 
How  he  is  isolated  in  his  age  ....  203 

vi.  Connection  of  philosophy  and  poetry — How  general 
notions  failed  under  the  scholastic  philosophy — 
Why  poetry  failed — Comparison  of  civilisation 
and  decadence  in  the  middle  age,  and  in  Spain — 
Extinction  of  the  English  literature — Translators 
— Rhyming  chroniclers — Didactic  poets — Com- 
pilers of  moralities — Gower — Occleve — Lydgate 
Analogy  of  taste  in  costumes,  buildings,  and 
literature — Sad  notion  of  fate,  and  human  misery 
— Hawes — Barclay — Skelton — Elements  of  the 
Reformation  and  of  the  Renaissance  .  213 


xii  CONTENTS. 

BOOK  II—  THE  RENAISSANCE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Benaissatut. 


§  1.  MANNEES  OP  THE  TIME. 

•up 

t.  Idea  which  men  had  formed  of  the  world,  since  the 
dissolution  of  the  old  society  —  How  and  why 
human  inventiveness  reappears  —  The  form  of  the 
spirit  of  the  Renaissance  —  The  representation  of 
objects  is  imitative,  characteristic,  and  complete  227 

n.  Why  the  ideal  changes  —  Improvement  of  the  state 
of  man  in  Europe  —  In  England  —  Peace  —  In- 
dustry —  Commerce  —  Pasturage  —  Agriculture  — 
Growth  of  public  wealth  —  Buildings  and  furni- 
ture —  The  palace,  meals  and  habits  —  Court 
pageantries  —  Celebrations  under  Elizabeth  — 
Masques  under  James  1  .....  230 

m.    Manners  of  the  people  —  Pageants  —  Theatres  —  Vil- 

lage feasts  —  Pagan  development       .         .         .     239 

iv.  Models  —  The  ancients  —  Translation  and  study  of 
classical  authors  —  Sympathy  for  the  manners  and 
mythology  of  the  ancients  —  The  moderns  —  Taste 
for  Italian  writings  and  ideas  —  Poetry  and 
painting  in  Italy  were  pagan  —  The  ideal  is  the 
strong  and  happy  man,  limited  by  the  present 
life  .  .  ......  243 

§   2.  POETKY. 

L  The  English  Renaissance  is  the  Renaissance  of  the 

Saxon  genius  ......  250 

n.  The  forerunners  —  The  Earl  of  Surrey  —  His  feudal 
and  chivalrous  life  —  His  English  individual 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

rtom 

character — Hia  serious  and  melancholy  poems — 

His  conception  of  inward  love ....     260 

m.  His  style — His  masters,  Petrarch  and  Virgil — His 
progress,  power,  precocious  perfection — Birth  of 
art — Weaknesses,  imitation,  research — Art  in- 
complete   256 

IT.  Growth  and  completion  of  art — Euphues  and  fashion 
— Style  and  spirit  of  the  Renaissance — Copious- 
ness and  irregularity — How  manners,  style,  and 
spirit  correspond — Sir  Philip  Sydney — His  edu- 
cation, life,  character  —  His  learning,  gravity, 
generosity,  forcible  expression — The  Arcadia — 
Exaggeration  and  mannerism  of  sentiments  and 
style — Defence  ofPoesie — Eloquence  and  energy — 
His  sonnets — Wherein  the  body  and  the  passions 
of  the  Renaissance  differ  from  those  of  the 
moderns — Sensual  love — Mystical  love  .  .259 

V.  Pastoral  poetry — The  great  number  of  poets — Spirit 
and  force  of  the  poetry — State  of  mind  which 
produces  it — Love  of  the  country — Reappearance 
of  the  ancient  gods — Enthusiasm  for  beauty — 
Picture  of  ingenuous  and  happy  love — Shaks- 
peare,  Jonson,  Fletcher,  Drayton,  Marlowe, 
Warner,  Breton,  Lodge,  Greene — How  the  trans- 
formation of  the  people  transforms  art  .  .  276 

Ti.  Ideal  poetry — Spenser — His  life — His  character — 
His  platonism — His  Hymns  of  love  and  beauty — 
Copiousness  of  his  imagination — How  far  it  was 
suited  for  the  epic — Wherein  it  was  allied  to  the 
"faSrie  " — His  tentatives — Shepherd's  Calendar — 
His  short  poems — His  masterpiece — The  Faerie 
Queene — His  epic  is  allegorical  and  yet  life-like — 
It  embraces  Christian  chivalry  and  the  Pagan 
Olympus — How  it  combines  these  .  .  .  389 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

MM 

TH.  The  Fafrie  Queene — Impossible  events — How  they 
appear  natural — Belphaebe  and  Chrysogone — Fairy 
and  gigantic  pictures  and  landscapes — "Why  they 
must  be  so — The  cave  of  Mammon,  and  the 
gardens  of  Acrasia — How  Spenser  composes — 
Wherein  the  art  of  the  Renaissance  is  complete  300 

§  3.  PROSE. 

x.  Limit  of  the  poetry — Changes  in  society  and  manners 
— How  the  return  to  nature  becomes  an  appeal 
to  the  senses — Corresponding  changes  in  poetry — 
How  agreeableness  replaces  energy — How  pretti- 
ness  replaces  the  beautiful  —  Refinements  — 
Carew,  Suckling,  Herrick — Affectation — Quarles, 
Herbert,  Babington,  Donne,  Cowley — Beginning 
of  the  classic  style,  and  drawing-room  life  .  321 

n.  How  poetry  passed  into  prose — Connection  of  science 
and  art — In  Italy — In  England  —  How  the 
triumph  of  nature  develops  the  exercise  of  the 
natural  reason  —  Scholars,  historians,  speakers, 
compilers,  politicians,  antiquaries,  philosophers, 
theologians — The  abundance  of  talent,  and  the 
rarity  of  fine  works — Superfluousness,  punctili- 
ousness, and  pedantry  of  the  style — Originality, 
precision,  energy,  and  richness  of  the  style—- 
How, unlike  the  classical  writers,  they  represent 
the  individual,  not  the  idea  ....  330 

m.  Robert  Burton — His  life  and  character — Vastnesa 
and  confusion  of  his  acquirements — His  subject, 
the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy — Scholastic  divisions 
— Medley  of  moral  and  medical  science  .  .  336 

iv.  Sir  Thomas  Browne — His  talent — His  imagination 
is  that  of  a  North-man — Hydriotaphia,  Beligio 


XV 


CONTENTS. 


Medici — His  ideas,  curiosity,  and  doubts  belong 
to  the  age  of  the  Renaissance — Pseudodoxia — 
Effects  of  this  activity  and  this  direction  of  the 
public  mind 343 

T.  Francis  Bacon — His  talent — His  originality — Con- 
centration and  brightness  of  his  style — Compari- 
sons and  aphorisms — The  Essays — His  style  not 
argumentative,  but  intuitive — His  practical  good 
sense — Turning-point  of  his  philosophy — The 
object  of  science  is  the  amelioration  of  the 
condition  of  man — New  Atlantis — The  idea  is  in 
accordance  with  the  state  of  affairs  and  the  spirit 
of  the  times — It  completes  the  Renaissance — It 
introduces  a  new  method  —  The  Organum  — 
Where  Bacon  stopped — Limits  of  the  spirit  of 
the  age — How  the  conception  of  the  world, 
which  had  been  poetic,  became  mechanical — 
How  the  Renaissance  ended  in  the  establishment 
of  positive  science  .  .  ,  .  .  ,  347 


CHAPTER  II. 

STfje  Cfjtatre. 

L        The  public— The  stage 360 

ji.       Manners  of  the  sixteenth  century — Violent  and 

complete  expansion  of  nature  ....     363 

m.      English  manners — Expansion  of  the  energetic  and 

gloomy  character 373 

IV.  The  poets — General  harmony  between  the  character 
of  a  poet  and  that  of  his  age — Nash,  Decker, 
Kyd,  Peele,  Lodge,  Greene — Their  condition  and 
life — Marlowe — His  life — His  works — Tambur 


lvi  CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

laine —  The  Jew  of  Malta — Edward  II. — Faustus 

— His  conception  of  man  .        .        .     380 

V.  Formation  of  this  drama — The  process  and  charac- 
ter of  this  art  —  Imitative  sympathy,  which 
depicts  by  expressive  examples — Contrast  of 
classical  and  Germanic  art — Psychological  con- 
struction and  proper  sphere  of  these  two  arts  .  397 

TX.  Male  characters — Furious  passions — Tragical  events 
— Exaggerated  characters — The  Duke  of  Milan  by 
Massinger- — Ford's^! nnabella — Webster's  Duchess 
of  Malfi  and  Vittoria  Corovibona — Female  charac- 
ters— Germanic  idea  of  love  and  marriage — 
Euphrasia,  Bianca,  Arethusa,  Ordella,  Aspasia 
Arnoret,  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher — Penthea  in 
Ford — Agreement  of,  the  moral  and  physical  type  404 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 
VOLUME   I 

THOMAS  CARLYLE      , Frontispiece 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT Page  16 

CHARLES  DARWIN "32 

JOHN  MILTON "    80 

JOHN  GOWER "112 

JOHN  WICLIF "160 

CARDINAL  WOLSEY "  208 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH "  240 

BEN  JONSON "  272 

JOHN  SELDEN "  320 

WILLIAM  CAMDEN "  336 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE "  352 

LORD  FRANCIS  BACON "  368 

SIR  THOMAS  MORE "  384 

FRANCIS  BEAUMONT "  400 

JOHN  FLETCHER    ,  "416 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  historian  might  place  himself  for  a  given  period,  say  a  series  of  ages, 
or  in  the  human  soul,  or  with  some  particular  people  ;  he  might 
study,  describe,  relate,  all  the  events,  all  the  transformations,  all  the 
revolutions  which  had  been  accomplished  in  the  internal  man  ;  and 
when  he  had  finished  his  work,  he  would  have  a  history  of  civilisa- 
tion amongst  the  people  and  in  the  period  he  had  selected. — GUIZOT, 
Civilisation  in  Europe,  p.  25. 

HISTORY  has  been  transformed,  within  a  hundred  years 
in  Germany,  within  sixty  years  in  France,  and  that  by 
the  study  of  their  literatures. 

It  was  perceived  that  a  literary  work  is  not  a  mere 
individual  play  of  imagination,  the  isolated  caprice  of 
an  excited  brain,  but  a  transcript  of  contemporary 
manners,  a  manifestation  of  a  certain  kind  of  mind.  It 
'vas  concluded  that  we  might  recover,  from  the  monu- 
ments of  literature,  a  knowledge  of  the  manner  in  which 
men  thought  and  felt  centuries  ago.  The  attempt  was 
made,  and  it  succeeded. 

Pondering  on  these  modes  of  feeling  and  thought, 
men  decided  that  they  were  facts  of  the  highest  kind. 
They  saw  that  these  facts  bore  reference  to  the  most 
important  occurrences,  that  they  explained  and  were 
explained  by  them,  that  it  was  necessary  thenceforth 
to  give  them  a  rank,  and  a  most  important,  rank,  in  his- 
tory. This  rank  they  have  received,  and  from  that 
moment  history  has  undergone  a  complete  change  :  in 
its  subject-matter,  its  system,  its  machinery,  the  appre- 

TOL.  I.  B 


2  INTRODUCTION. 

ciation  of  laws  and  of  causes.  It  is  this  change,  such 
as  it  is  and  must  be,  that  we  shall  here  endeavour  to 
exhibit. 

I. 

Historical  What  is  your  first  remark  on  turning  over  the  great, 
se^vToniy  stiff  leaves  of  a  folio,  the  yellow  sheets  of  a  manuscript, 
as  a  clue  to  — a  p0em  a  code  of  laws,  a  confession  of  faith  ?  This, 

reconstruct  c  .  . 

the  visible  you  say,  did  not  come  into  existence  all  alone.  It  is  but 
individual.  a  moui(jj  ]|ke  a  fossii  shell,  an  imprint,  like  one  of  those 

shapes  embossed  in  stone  by  an  animal  which  lived  and 
perished.  Under  the  shell  there  was  an  animal,  and 
behind  the  document  there  was  a  man.  Why  do  you 
study  the  shell,  except  to  bring  before  you  the  animal  ? 
So  you  study  the  document  only  to  know  the  man.  The 
shell  and  the  document  are  lifeless  wrecks,  valuable  only 
as  a  clue  to  the  entire  and  living  existence.  We  must  get 
hold  of  this  existence,  endeavour  to  re-create  it.  It  is  a 
mistake  to  study  the  document,  as  if  it  were  isolated. 
This  were  to  treat  things  like  a  simple  scholar,  to  fall 
into  the  error  of  the  bibliomaniac.  Neither  mythology 
nor  languages  exist  in  themselves  ;  but  only  men,  who 
arrange  words  and  imagery  according  to  the  necessities 
of  their  organs  and  the  original  bent  of  their  intellects. 
A  dogma  is  nothing  in  itself;  look  at  the  people  who 
have  made  it, — a  portrait,  for  instance,  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  say  the  stern  powerful  face  of  an  English  arch- 
bishop or  martyr.  Nothing  exists  except  through  some 
individual  man ;  it  is  this  individual  with  whom  we 
must  become  acquainted.  When  we  have  established 
the  parentage  of  dogmas,  or  the  classification  of  poems, 
or  the  progress  of  constitutions,  or  the  transformation  of 
idioms,  we  have  only  cleared  the  soil :  genuine  history 
is  brought  into  existence  only  when  the  historian  begins 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

to  unravel,  across  the  lapse  of  time,  the  living  man, 
toiling,  impassioned,  entrenched  in  his  customs,  with 
his  voice  and  features,  his  gestures  and  his  dress,  distinct 
and  complete  as  he  from  whom  we  have  just  parted  in 
the  street.  Let  us  endeavour,  then,  to  annihilate  as 
far  as  possible  this  great  interval  of  time,  which  prevents 
us  from  seeing  man  with  our  eyes,  with  the  eyes  of  our 
head.  What  have  we  under  the  fair  glazed  pages  of  a 
modern  poem  ?  A  modern  poet,  who  has  studied  and 
travelled,  a  man  like  Alfred  de  Musset,  Victor  Hugo, 
Lamartine,  or  Heine,  in  a  black  coat  and  gloves,  wel- 
comed by  the  ladies,  and  making  every  evening  his  fifty 
bows  and  his  score  of  bon-mots  in  society,  reading  the 
papers  in  the  morning,  lodging  as  a  rule  on  a  second 
floor ;  not  over  gay,  because  he  has  nerves,  and  especi- 
ally because,  in  this  dense  democracy  where  we  choke 
one  another,  the  discredit  of  the  dignities  of  office  has 
exaggerated  his  pretensions  while  increasing  his  im- 
portance, and  because  the  keenness  of  his  feelings  in 
general  disposes  him  somewhat  to  believe  himself  a 
deity.  This  is  what  we  take  note  of  under  modern 
Meditations  or  Sonnets.  Even  so,  under  a  tragedy  of 
the  seventeenth  century  we  have  a  poet,  like  Eacine 
for  instance,  elegant,  staid,  a  courtier,  a  fine  talker, 
with  a  majestic  wig  and  ribboned  shoes,  at  heart  a 
royalist  and  a  Christian,  who  says,  "  God  has  been  so 
gracious  to  me,  that  in  whatever  company  I  find  my- 
self I  never  have  occasion  to  blush  for  the  gospel  or  the 
king  j"1  clever  at  entertaining  the  prince,  and  rendering 

1  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  in  her  Historical  and  Moral  View  of  the 
French  Revolution,  p.  25,  says,  in  quoting  this  passage,  "What  could 
be  expected  from  the  courtier  who  could  write  in  these  terms  to  Madame 
de  Maintenon." — Ta. 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

for  him  into  good  French  the  "  old  French  of  Amyot ;" 
very  respectful  to  the  great,  always  "  knowing  his  place;" 
as  assiduous  and  reserved  at  Marly  as  at  Versailles, 
amidst  the  regular  pleasures  of  polished  and  ornate 
nature,  amidst  the  salutations,  graces,  airs,  and  fopperies 
of  the  braided  lords,  who  rose  early  in  the  morning  to 
obtain  the  promise  of  being  appointed  to  some  office  in 
case  of  the  death  of  the  present  holder,  and  amongst 
charming  ladies  who  count  their  genealogies  on  their 
fingers  in  order  to  obtain  the  right  of  sitting  down  in  the 
presence  of  the  King  or  Queen.  On  that  head  consult 
St.  Simon  and  the  engravings  of  Pe*relle,  as  for  the 
present  age  you  have  consulted  Balzac  and  the  water- 
colours  of  Eugene  Lami.  Similarly,  when  we  read  a 
Greek  tragedy,  our  first  care  should  be  to  realise  to 
ourselves  the  Greeks,  that  is,  the  men  who  live  half 
naked,  in  the  gymnasia,  or  in  the  public  squares,  under 
a  glowing  sky,  face  to  face  with  the  most  beautiful  and 
the  most  noble  landscapes,  bent  on  making  their  bodies 
lithe  and  strong,  on  conversing,  discussing,  voting,  carry- 
ing on  patriotic  piracies,  nevertheless  lazy  and  temperate, 
with  three  urns  for  their  furniture,  two  anchovies  in  a 
jar  of  oil  for  their  food,  waited  on  by  slaves,  so  as  to 
give  them  leisure  to  cultivate  their  understanding  and 
exercise  their  limbs,  with  no  desire  beyond  that  of  having 
the  most  beautiful  town,  the  most  beautiful  processions, 
the  most  beautiful  ideas,  the  most  beautiful  men.  On 
this  subject,  a  statue  such  as  the  Meleager  or  the  Theseus 
of  the  Parthenon,  or  still  more,  the  sight  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, blue  and  lustrous  as  a  silken  tunic,  and  the  islands 
that  stud  it  with  their  massive  marble  outlines :  add 
to  these  twenty  select  phrases  from  Plato  and  Aristo- 
phanes, and  they  will  teach  you  much  more  than  a  multi- 

-     * 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

tude  of  dissertations  and  commentaries.  And  so  again,  in 
order  to  understand  an  Indian  Purana,  begin  by  imagin- 
ing to  yourself  the  father  of  a  family,  who,  "  having  seen 
a  son  on  his  son's  knees,"  retires,  according  to  the  law, 
into  solitude,  with  an  axe  and  a  pitcher  under  a  banyan 
tree,  by  the  brook-side,  talks  no  more,  adds  fast  to 
fast,  dwells  naked  between  four  fires,  and  under  that 
terrible  sun,  which  devours  and  renews  without  end 
all  things  living ;  who,  for  weeks  at  a  time,  fixes  his 
imagination  first  upon  the  feet  of  Brahma,  next  upon 
his  knee,  next  upon  his  thigh,  next  upon  his  navel, 
and  so  on,  until,  beneath  the  strain  of  this  intense 
meditation,  hallucinations  begin  to  appear,  until  all 
the  forms  of  existence,  mingled  and  transformed  the 
one  with  the  other,  quaver  before  a  sight  dazzled  and 
giddy,  until  the  motionless  man,  catching  in  his  breath, 
with  fixed  gaze,  beholds  the  universe  vanishing  like  a 
smoke  in  the  universal  void  of  Being  into  which  he 
hopes  to  be  absorbed.  To  this  end  a  voyage  to  India 
would  be  the  best  instructor ;  or  for  want  of  better, 
the  accounts  of  travellers,  books  of  geography,  botany, 
ethnology,  will  serve  their  turn.  In  each  case  the 
search  must  be  the  same.  Language,  legislation, 
creeds,  are  only  abstract  things :  the  complete  thing 
is  the  man  who  acts,  the  man  corporeal  and  visible, 
who  eats,  walks,  fights,  labours.  Leave  aside  the 
theory  and  the  mechanism  of  constitutions,  religions 
and  their  systems,  and  try  to  see  men  in  their  work- 
shops,  in  their  offices,  in  their  fields,  with  their  sky 
and  soil,  their  houses,  their  dress,  cultivations,  meals, 
as  you  do  when,  landing  in  England  or  Italy,  you  look 
at  faces  and  motions,  roads  and  inns,  a  citizen  taking 
his  walk,  a  workman  drinking.  Our  great  care  should 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

be  to  supply  as  much  as  possible  the  want  of  present, 
personal,  direct,  and  sensible  observation  Which  we  can 
no  longer  practise  ;  for  it  is  the  only  means  of  knowing 
men.  Let  us  make  the  past  present :  in  order  to  judge 
of  a  thing,  it  must  be  before  us ;  there  is  no  experience  in 
respect  of  what  is  absent.  Doubtless  this  reconstruc- 
tion is  always  incomplete ;  it  can  produce  only  incom- 
plete judgments ;  but  that  we  cannot  help.  It  is  better 
to  have  an  imperfect  knowledge  than  none  at  all ;  and 
there  is  no  other  means  of  acquainting  ourselves  ap- 
proximately with  the  events  of  other  days,  than  to  see 
approximately  the  men  of  other  days. 

This  is  the  first  step  in  history;  it  was  made  in 
Europe  at  the  revival  of  imagination,  toward  the  close 
of  the  last  century,  by  Lessing  and  Walter  Scott ;  a  little 
later  in  France,  by  Chateaubriand,  Augustin  Thierry, 
Michelet,  and  others.  And  now  for  the  second  step. 


II. 

The  outer         When  you  consider  with  your  eyes  the  visible  man, 

man  is  only  •  ... 

A  due  to      what  do  you  look  for  ?     The  man  invisible.     The  words 


which  enter  your  ears,  the  gestures,  the  motions  of  his 
visiwe  man.  head,  the  clothes  he  wears,  visible  acts  and  deeds  of 
every  kind,  are  expressions  merely  ;  somewhat  is  revealed 
beneath  them,  and  that  is  a  soul.  An  inner  man  is  con- 
cealed beneath  the  outer  man  ;  the  second  does  but 
reveal  the  first.  You  look  at  his  house,  furniture,  dress  ; 

and  that  in  order  to  discover  in  them  the  marks  of  his 
"  \flj^ 

habits  and    tastes,    the    degree  of   his  refinement    or 

rusticity,  his  extravagance  or  his  economy,  his  stupidity 
or  his  acuteness.  You  listen  to  his  conversation,  and 
you  note  the  inflexions  of  his  voice,  the  changes  in  his 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

attitudes ;  and  that  in  order  to  judge  of  his  vivacity,  his 
self-forgetfulness  or  his  gaiety,  his  energy  or  his  con- 
straint. You  consider  his  writings,  his  artistic  produc- 
tions, his  business  transactions  or  political  ventures; 
and  that  in  order  to  measure  the  scope  and  limits  of 
his  intelligence,  his  inventiveness,  his  coolness,  to  find 
out  the  order,  the  character,  the  general  force  of  his 
ideas,  the  mode  in  which  he  thinks  and  resolves.  All 
these  externals  are  but  avenues  converging  towards  a 
centre ;  you  enter  them  simply  in  order  to  reach  that 
centre ;  and  that  centre  is  the  genuine  man,  I  mean 
that  mass  of  faculties  and  feelings  which  are  the  inner 
man.  We  have  reached  a  new  world,  which  is  infinite, 
because  every  action  which  we  see  involves  an  infinite 
association  of  reasonings,  emotions,  sensations  new  and 
old,  which  have  served  to  bring  it  to  light,  and  which, 
like  great  rocks  deep-seated  in  the  ground,  find  in  it 
their  end  and  their  level.  This  underworld  is  a  new 
subject-matter,  proper  to  the  historian.  If  his  critical 
education  is  sufficient,  he  can  lay  bare,  under  every 
detail  of  architecture,  every  stroke  in  a  picture,  every 
phrase  in  a  writing,  the  special  sensation  whence  detail, 
stroke,  or  phrase  had  issue ;  he  is  present  at  the  drama 
which  was  enacted  in  the  soul  of  artist  or  writer ;  the 
choice  of  a  word,  the  brevity  or  length  of  a  sentence,  the 
nature  of  a  metaphor,  the  accent  of  a  verse,  the  devel- 
opment of  an  argument — everything  is  a  symbol  to 
him ;  while  his  eyes  read  the  text,  his  soul  and  mind 
pursue  the  continuous  development  and  the  everchanging 
succession  of  the  emotions  and  conceptions  out  of  which 
the  text  has  sprung :  in  short,  he  works  out  its;  psychology. 
If  you  would  observe  this  operation,  consider  the  origin- 
ator  and  model  of  all  grand  contemporary  culture,  Goethe, 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

who,  before  writing  Iphigenia,  employed  day  after  day  in 
making  drawings  of  the  most  finished  statues,  and  who 
at  last,  his  eyes  filled  with  the  noble  forms  of  ancient 
scenery,  his  mind  penetrated  by  the  harmonious  loveli- 
ness of  antique  life,  succeeded  in  reproducing  so  exactly 
in  himself  the  habits  and  peculiarities  of  the  Greek 
imagination,  that  he  gives  us  almost  the  twin  sister  of 
the  Antigone  of  Sophocles,  and  the  goddesses  of  Phidias. 
This  precise  and  proved  interpretation  of  past  sensa- 
tions has  given  to  history,  in  our  days,  a  second  birth ; 
hardly  anything  of  the  sort  was  known  to  the  preceding 
[  century.  They  thought  men  of  every  race  and  century 
were  all  but  identical;  the  Greek,  the  barbarian,  the 
Hindoo,  the  man  of  the  Eenaissance,  and  the  man  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  as  if  they  had  been  turned  out 
of  a  common  mould ;  and  all  in  conformity  to  a  certain 
abstract  conception,  which  served  for  the  whole  human 
race.  They  knew  man,  but  not  men ;  they  had  not 
j  penetrated  to  the  soul ;  they  had  not  seen  the  infinite 
diversity  and  marvellous  complexity  of  souls ;  they  did 
not  know  that  the  moral  constitution  of  a  people  or  an 
age  is  as  particular  and  distinct  as  the  physical  structure 
of  a  family  of  plants  or  an  order  of  animals.  Now-a- 
days,  history,  like  zoology,  has  found  its  anatomy ;  and 
whatever  the  branch  of  history  to  which  you  devote  your- 
self, philology,  linguistic  lore,  mythology,  it  is  by  these 
means  you  must  strive  to  produce  new  fruit.  Amid 
so  many  writers  who,  since  the  time  of  Herder,  Ottfried 
Miiller,  and  Goethe,  have  continued  and  still  improve 
this  great  method,  let  the  reader  consider  only  two  his- 
torians and  two  works,  Carlyle's  Cromwell,  and  Sainte- 
Beuve's  Port-Royal :  he  will  see  with  what  fairness, 
exactness,  depth  of  insight,  a  man  may  discover  a  soul 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

beneath  its  actions  and  its  works ;  how  behind  the  old 
general,  in  place  of  a  vulgar  hypocritical  schemer,  we  re- 
cover a  man  troubled  with  the  obscure  reveries  of  a 
melancholic  imagination,  but  with  practical  instincts  and 
faculties,  English  to  the  core,  strange  and  incomprehen- 
sible to  one  who  has  not  studied  the  climate  and  the  race ; 
how,  with  about  a  hundred  meagre  letters  and  a  score  of 
mutilated  speeches,  we  may  follow  him  from  his  farm 
and  team,  to  the  general's  tent  and  to  the  Protector's 
throne,  in  his  transmutation  and  development,  in  his 
pricks  of  conscience  and  his  political  sagacity,  until  the 
machinery  of  his  mind  and  actions  becomes  visible,  and 
the  inner  tragedy,  ever  changing  and  renewed,  which 
exercised  this  great,  darkling  soul,  passes,  like  one  of 
Shakspeare's,  through  the  soul  of  the  looker-on.  He 
will  see  (in  the  other  case)  how,  behind  the  squabbles 
of  the  monastery,  or  the  contumacies  of  nuns,  he  may 
find  a  great  province  of  human  psychology ;  how  about 
fifty  characters,  that  had  been  buried  under  the  uni- 
formity of  a  circumspect  narrative,  reappear  in  the  light 
of  day,  each  with  its  own  specialty  and  its  countless 
diversities  ;  how,  beneath  theological  disquisitions  and 
monotonous  sermons,  we  can  unearth  the  beatings  of 
living  hearts,  the  convulsions  and  apathies  of  monastic 
life,  the  unforeseen  reassertions  and  wavy  turmoil  of 
nature,  the  inroads  of  surrounding  worldliness,  the  inter- 
mittent victories  of  grace,  with  such  a  variety  of  lights 
and  shades,  that  the  most  exhaustive  description  and  the 
most  elastic  style  can  hardly  gather  the  inexhaustible 
harvest,  which  the  critic  has  caused  to  spring  up  on  this 
abandoned  field.  And  so  it  is  throughout.  Germany, 
with  its  genius  so  pliant,  so  comprehensive,  so  apt  for 
transformation,  so  well  calculated  to  reproduce  the  most 


10  INTRODUCTION. 

remote  and  anomalous  conditions  of  human  thought; 
England,  with  its  intellect  so  precise,  so  well  calculated 
to  grapple  closely  with  moral  questions,  to  render  them 
exact  by  figures,  weights  and  measures,  geography,  statis- 
tics, by  quotation  and  by  common  sense ;  France,  with 
her  Parisian  culture,  with  her  drawing-room  manners, 
with  her  untiring  analysis  of  characters  and  actions,  her 
irony  so  ready  to  hit  upon  a  weakness,  her  finesse  so 
practised  in  the  discrimination  of  shades  of  thought ; — 
all  have  worked  the  same  soil,  and  we  begin  to  under- 
stand that  there  is  no  region  of  history  where  it  is  not 
imperative  to  till  this  deep  level,  if  we  would  see  a 
serviceable  harvest  rise  between  the  furrows. 

This  is  the  second  step ;  we  are  in  a  fair  way  to  its 
completion.  It  is  the  fit  work  of  the  contemporary 
critic.  No  one  has  done  it  so  justly  and  grandly  as 
^Sainte-Beuve  :  in  this  respect  we  are  all  his  pupils ;  his 
method  has  revolutionised,  in  our  days,  in  books,  and 
even  in  newspapers,  every  kind  of  literary,  of  philosophi- 
cal and  religious  criticism.  From  it  we  must  set  out  in 
order  to  begin  the  further  development.  I  have  more 
than  once  endeavoured  to  indicate  this  development; 
there  is  here,  in  my  mind,  a  new  path  open  to  history, 
and  I  will  try  to  describe  it  more  in  detail. 


III. 

The  state 

"ions  of  the  When  you  have  observed  and  noted  in  man  one, 
iimerand  (/wo  three,  then  a  multitude  of  sensations,  does  this 

invisible 

mil n  have  suffice,  or  does  your  knowledge  appear  complete  ?  Is 
inl-eruiin68  Psychology  only  a  series  of  observations  ?  No ;  here 
general  ^  elsewhere  we  must  search  out  the ;  causes  after  we 

\\  flA  8  OI 

thought      have  collected  the  facts.     No  matter  if  the  facts  be 

and  feeling. 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

physical  or  moral,  they  all  have  their  causes;  there  is 
a  cause  for  ambition,  for  courage,  for  truth,  as  there 
is  for  digestion,  for  muscular  movement,  for  animal 
heat.  Vice  and  virtue  are  products,  like  vitriol  and 
sugar ;  and  every  complex  phenomenon  arises  from  other 
more  simple  phenomena  on  which  it  hangs.  Let  us 
then  seek  the  simple  phenomena  for  moral  qualities,  as 
we  seek  them  for  physical  qualities;  and  let  us  take 
the  first  fact  that  presents  itself :  for  example,  religious 
music,  that  of  a  Protestant  Church.  There  is  an  inner 
cause  which  has  turned  the  spirit  of  the  faithful  toward 
these  grave  and  monotonous  melodies,  a  cause  broader  ^-y 
than  its  effect ;  I  mean  the  general  idea  of  the  true,  ex- 
ternal worship  which  man  owes  to  God.  It  is  this  which 
has  modelled  the  architecture  of  Protestant  places  of 
worship,  thrown  down  the  statues,  removed  the  pictures, 
destroyed  the  ornaments,  curtailed  the  ceremonies,  shut 
up  the  worshippers  in  high  pews  which  prevent  them 
from  seeing  anything,  and  regulated  the  thousand  details 
of  decoration,  posture,  and  general  externals.  This 
again  conies  from  another  more  general  cause,  (the  idea 
of  human  conduct  in  all  its  comprehensiveness^  in-  • 
ternal  and  external,  prayers,  actions,  duties  of  every 
kind  which  man  owes  to  God ;  it  is  this  which  has 
enthroned  the  doctrine  of  grace,  lowered  the  status 
of  the  clergy,  transformed  the  sacraments,  suppressed 
various  practices,  and  changed  religion  from  a  discipline  v 
to  a  morality.  This  second  idea  in  its  turn  depends 
upon  a  third  still  more  general,  that  of  moral  perfection, 
such  as  is  met  with  in  the  perfect  God,  the  unerring 
judge,  the  stern  watcher  of  souls,  before  whom  every 
soul  is  sinful,  worthy  of  punishment,  incapable  of  virtue 
or  salvation,  except  by  the  power  of  conscience  which 


12  INTRODUCTION. 

He  calls  forth,  and  the  renewal  of  heart  which  He  pro- 
duces. That  is  the  master  idea,  which  consists  in 
erecting  duty  into  an  absolute  king  of  human  life,  and 
in  prostrating  all  ideal  models  before  a  moral  model. 
Here  we  track  the  root  of  man ;  for  to  explain  this 
,  conception  it  is  necessary  to^  consider  the  race  itself, 
the  German  and  Northman,  the  structure  of  his  cha- 
racter and  mind,  his  general  processes  of  thought 
and  feeling,  the  sluggishness  and  coldness  of  sensation 
which  prevent  his  falling  easily  and  headlong  under 
the  sway  of  pleasure,  the  bluntness  of  his  taste,  the 
irregularity  and  revolutions  of  his  conception,  which 
arrest  in  him  the  birth  of  fair  dispositions  and  harmoni- 
ous forms,  the  disdain  of  appearances,  the  desire  for  truth, 
the  attachment  to  bare  and  abstract  ideas,  which  develop 
in  him  conscience,  at  the  expense  of  all  else.  There 
the  search  is  at  an  end  ;  we  have  arrived  at  a  primitive 
disposition  ;  at  a  feature  peculiar  to  all  the  sensations, 
and  to  all  the  conceptions  of  a  century  or  a  race,  at  a  par- 
ticularity inseparable  from  all  the  motions  of  his  intellect 
and  his  heart.  Here  lie  the  grand  causes,  for  they  are 
the  universal  and  permanent  causes,  present  at  every 
moment  and  in  every  case,  everywhere  and  always 
acting,  indestructible,  and  finally  infallibly  supreme, 
since  the  accidents  which  thwart  them,  being  limited 
and  partial,  end  by  yielding  to  the  dull  and  incessant 
repetition  of  their  efforts ;  in  such  a  manner  that  the 
general  structure  of  things,  and  the  grand  features  of 
events,  are  their  work ;  and  religions,  philosophies, 
poetries,  industries,  the  framework  of  society  and  of 
families,  are  in  fact  only  the  imprints  stamped  by  their 
Seal 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

IV. 

There  is,  then,  a  system  in  human  sentiments  and  cwefcause* 
ideas  :  and  this  system  has  for  its  motive  power  certain  andhfeef ht* 
general  traits,  certain  characteristics  of  the  intellect  and in**  Their 

historical 

the  heart  common  to  men  of  one  race,  age,  or  country,  effects. 
As  in  mineralogy  the  crystals,  however  diverse,  spring 
from  certain  simple  physical  forms,  so  in  history,  civilis- 
ations, however  diverse,  are  derived  from  certain  simple 
spiritual  forms.  The  one  are  explained  by  a  primitive 
geometrical  element,  as  the  others  are  by  a  primitive 
psychological  element.  In  order  to  master  the  classifi- 
cation of  mineralogical  systems,  we  must  first  consider 
a  regular  and  general  solid,  its  sides  and  angles,  and 
observe  in  this  the  numberless  transformations  of  which 
it  is  capable.  So,  if  you  would  realise  the  system  of 
historical  varieties,  consider  first  a  human  soul  generally, 
with  its  two. or  three  fundamental  faculties,  and  in  this 
compendium  you  will  perceive  the  principal  forms  which 
it  can  present.  After  all,  this  kind  of  ideal  picture, 
geometrical  as  well  as  psychological,  is  not  very  complex, 
and  we  speedily  see  the  limits  of  the  outline  in  which 
civilisations,  like  crystals,  are  constrained  to  exist. 

What  is  really  the  mental  structure  of  man  ?  Images 
or  representations  of  things,  which  float  within  him, 
exist  for  a  time,  are  effaced,  and  return  again,  after  he 
lias  been  looking  upon  a  tree,  an  animal,  any  visible 
object.  This  is  the  subject-matter,  the  development 
whereof  is  double,  either  speculative  or  practical,  accord- 
ing as  the  representations  resolve  themselves  into  a 
general  conception  or  an  active  resolution.  Here  we  have 
the  whole  of  man  in  an  abridgment ;  and  in  this  limited 
circle  human  diversities  meet,  sometimes  in  the  womb 
of  the  primordial  matter,  sometimes  in  the  twofold 


H  INTRODUCTION. 

primordial  development.  However  minute  in  their 
elements,  they  are  enormous  in  the  aggregate,  and 
the  least  alteration  in  the  factors  produces  vast  altera- 
tion in  the  results.  According  as  the  representa- 
tion is  clear  and  as  it  were  punched  out  or  confused 
and  faintly  defined,  according  as  it  embraces  a  great 
or  small  number  of  the  characteristics  of  the  object, 
according  as  it  is  violent  and  accompanied  by  impulses, 
or  quiet  and  surrounded  by  calm,  all  the  operations 
and  processes  of  the  human  machine  are  transformed. 
So,  again,  according  as  the  ulterior  development  of  the 
representation  varies,  the  whole  human  development 
varies.  If  the  general  conception  in  which  it  results 
is  a  mere  dry  notation  (in  Chinese  fashion),  language 
becomes  a  sort  of  algebra,  religion  and  poetry  dwindle, 
philosophy  is  reduced  to  a  kind  of  moral  and  practical 
common  sense,  science  to  a  collection  of  utilitarian 
formulas,  classifications,  mnemonics,  and  the  whole  in- 
tellect takes  a  positive  bent.  If,  on  the  contrary,  the 
general  representation  in  which  the  conception  results 
is  a  poetical  and  figurative  creation,  a  living  symbol,  as 
.  among  the  Aryan  races,  language  becomes  a  sort  of  deli- 
cately-shaded and  coloured  epic  poem,  in  which  every 
word  is  a  person,  poetry  and  religion  assume  a  magnifi- 
cent and  inexhaustible  grandeur,  metaphysics  are  widely 
and  subtly  developed,  without  regard  to  positive  appli- 
cations ;  the  whole  intellect,  in  spite  of  the  inevitable 
deviations  and  shortcomings  of  its  effort,  is  smitten 
with  the  beautiful  and  the  sublime,  and  conceives  an 
ideal  capable  by  its  nobleness  and  its  harmony  of 
rallying  round  it  the  tenderness  and  enthusiasm  of  the 
human  race.  If,  again,  the  general  conception  in  which 
the  representation  results  is  poetical  but  not  graduated; 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

if  man  arrives  at  it  not  by  au  uninterrupted  gradation, 
but  by  a  quick  intuition ;  if  the  original  operation  is 
not  a  regular  development,  but  a  violent  explosion, — 
then,  as  with  the  Semitic  races,  metaphysics  are  absent,  1 
religion  conceives  God  only  as  a  king  solitary  and  de-  )  \ 
vouring,  science  cannot  grow,  the  intellect  is  too  rigid 
and  unbending  to  reproduce  the  delicate  operations  of 
nature,  poetry  can  give  birth  only  to  vehement  and 
grandiose  exclamations,  language  cannot  unfold  the  web 
of  argument  and  of  eloquence,  man  is  reduced  to  a  lyric 
enthusiasm,  an  unchecked  passion,  a  fanatical  and  limited 
action.  In  this  interval  between  the  particular  repre- 
sentation and  the  universal  conception  are  found  the 
germs  of  the  greatest  human  differences.  Some  races, 
as  the  classical,  pass  from  the  first  to  the  second  by  a 
graduated  scale  of  ideas,  regularly  arranged,  and  general 
by  degrees ;  others,  as  the  Germanic,  traverse  the  same 
ground  by  leaps,  without  uniformity,  after  vague  and 
prolonged  groping.  Some,  like  the  Romans  and  English, 
halt  at  the  first  steps ;  others,  like  the  Hindoos  and 
Germans,  mount  to  the  last.  If,  again,  after  consider- 
ing the  passage  from  the  representation  to  the  idea,  we 
consider  that  from  the  representation  to  the  resolution, 
we  find  elementary  differences  of  the  like  importance 
and  the  like  order,  according  as  the  impression  is  sharp, 
as  in  southern  climates,  or  dull,  as  in  northern ;  accord- 
ing as  it  results  in  instant  action,  as  among  barbarians, 
or  slowly,  as  in  civilised  nations  ;  as  it  is  capable  or  not 
of  growth,  inequality,  persistence,  and  relations.  The 
whole  network  of  human  passions,  the  chances  of  peace 
and  public  security,  the  sources  of  labour  and  action, 
spring  from  hence.  Such  is  the  case  with  all  primordial 
differences:  their  issues  embrace  an  entire  civilisation; 


16  INTRODUCTION. 

and  we  may  compare  them  to  those  algebraical  formulas 
which,  in  a  narrow  limit,  contain  in  advance  the  whole 
curve  of  which  they  form  the  law,  Not  that  this  law 
is  always  developed  to  its  issue ;  there  are  perturbing 
forces ;  but  when  it  is  so,  it  is  not  that  the  law  was  false, 
but  that  it  was  not  single.  New  elements  become 
mingled  with  the  old ;  great  forces  from  without  counter- 
act the  primitive.  The  race  emigrates,  like  the  Aryan, 
and  the  change  of  climate  has  altered  in  its  case  the 
whole  economy,  intelligence,  and  organisation  of  society. 
The  people  has  been  conquered,  like  the  Saxon  nation, 
and  a  new  political  structure  has  imposed  on  it  customs, 
capacities,  and  inclinations  which  it  had  not.  The 
nation  has  installed  itself  in  the  midst  of  a  conquered 
people,  downtrodden  and  threatening,  like  the  ancient 
Spartans;  and  the  necessity  of  living  like  troops  in 
the  field  has  violently  distorted  in  an  unique  direction 
the  whole  moral  and  social  constitution.  In  each  case, 
the  mechanism  of  human  history  is  the  same.  We 
continually  find,  as  the  original  mainspring,  some  very 
general  disposition  of  mind  and  soul,  innate  and  ap- 
t  pended  by  nature  to  the  race,  or  acquired  and  produced 
\by  some  circumstance  acting  upon  the  race.  These 
mainsprings,  once  admitted,  produce  their  effect  gradu- 
ally :  I  mean  that  after  some  centuries  they  bring  the 
nation  into  a  new  condition,  religious,  literary,  social, 
economic ;  a  new  condition  which,  combined  with  their 
renewed  effort,  produces  another  condition,  sometimes 
good,  sometimes  bad,  sometimes  slowly,  sometimes 
quickly,  and  so  forth ;  so  that  we  may  regard  the  whole 
progress  of  each  distinct  civilisation  as  the  effect  of  a 
permanent  force  which,  at  every  stage,  varies  its  opera- 
tion by  modifying  the  circumstances  of  its  action. 


V-I.  P-i6. 


SIB  WALTER  SCOTT 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

V. 

Three  different  sources  contribute  to  produce  this  TH« 
elementary  moral  state  —  RACE,  SURROUNDINGS,  and  £j 
EPOCH.  What  we  call  the  race  are  the  innate  and  here-  BACIt 
ditary  dispositions  which  man  brings  with  him  into  the 
world,  and  which,  as  a  rule,  are  united  with  the  marked 
differences  in  the  temperament  and  structure  of  the  body. 
They  vary  with  various  peoples.  There  is  a  natural 
variety  of  men,  as  of  oxen  and  horses,  some  brave  and 
intelligent,  some  timid  and  dependent,  some  capable  of 
superior  conceptions  and  creations,  some  reduced  to  rudi- 
mentary ideas  and  inventions,  some  more  specially  fitted 
to  special  works,  and  gifted  more  richly  with  particular 
instincts,  as  we  meet  with  species  of  dogs  better  favoured 
than  others, — these  for  coursing,  those  for  fighting,  those 
for  hunting,  these  again  for  house  dogs  or  shepherds' 
dogs.  We  have  here  a  distinct  force, — so  distinct,  that 
amidst  the  vast  deviations  which  the  other  two  motive 
forces  produce  in  him,  one  can  recognise  it  still ;  and  a 
race,  like  the  old  Aryans,  scattered  from  the  Ganges 
as  far  as  the  Hebrides,  settled  in  every  clime,  and 
every  stage  of  civilisation,  transformed  by  thirty  cen- 
turies of  revolutions,  nevertheless  manifests  in  its 
languages,  religions,  literatures,  philosophies,  the  com- 
munity of  blood  and  of  intellect  which  to  this  day  binds 
its  offshoots  together.  Different  as  they  are,  their 
parentage  is  not  obliterated ;  barbarism,  culture  and 
grafting,  differences  of  sky  and  soil,  fortunes  good  and 
bad,  have  laboured  in  vain :  the  great  marks  of  the 
original  model  have  remained,  and  we  find  again  the  two 
or  three  principal  lineaments  of  the  primitive  stamp 
underneath  the  secondary  imprints  which  time  has  laid 
upon  them.  There  is  nothing  astonishing  in  this  extra- 

VOL.  I.  C 


18  INTRODUCTION. 

ordinary  tenacity.  Although  the  vastness  of  the  distance 
lets  us  but  half  perceive — and  by  a  doubtful  light — the 
origin  of  species,1  the  events  of  history  sufficiently 
illumine  the  events  anterior  to  history,  to  explain  the 
almost  immovable  steadfastness  of  the  primordial  marks. 
When  we  meet  with  them,  fifteen,  twenty,  thirty  cen- 
turies before  our  era,  in  an  Aryan,  an  Egyptian,  a  Chinese, 
they  represent  the  work  of  a  great  many  ages,  perhaps 
of  several  myriads  of  centuries.  For  as  soon  as  an 
animal  begins  to  exist,  it  has  to  reconcile  itself  with  its 
surroundings;  it  breathes  and  renews  itself,  is  differ- 
ently affected  according  to  the  variations  in  air,  food, 
temperature.  Different  climate  and  situation  bring  it 
various  needs,  and  consequently  a  different  course  of 
Activity ;  and  this,  again,  a  different  set  of  habits  ;  and 
still  again,  a  different  set  of  aptitudes  and  instincts. 
Man,  forced  to  accommodate  himself  to  circumstances, 
contracts  a  temperament  and  a  character  corresponding 
to  them ;  and  his  character,  like  his  temperament,  is 
so  much  more  stable,  as  the  external  impression  is  made 
upon  him  by  more  numerous  repetitions,  and  is  trans' 
mitted  to  his  progeny  by  a  more  ancient  descent.  So 
that  at  any  moment  we  may  consider  the  character  of 
a  people  as  an  abridgment  of  all  its  preceding  actions 
and  sensations ;  that  is,  as  a  quantity  and  as  a  weight, 
riot  infinite,2  since  everything  in  nature  is  finite,  but 
disproportioned  to  the  rest,  and  almost  impossible  to 
lift,  since  every  moment  of  an  almost  infinite  past  has 
contributed  to  increase  it,  and  because,  in  order  to  raise 
the  scale,  one  must  place  in  the  opposite  scale  a  still 
greater  number  of  actions  and  sensations.  Such  is  the 

1  Darwin,  The  Origin  of  Species.    Prosper  Lucas,  de  rHertditt. 
8  Spinoza,  Ethics,  Part  iv.  axiom. 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

first  and  richest  source  of  these  master-faculties  from 
which  historical  events  take  their  rise  ;  and  one  sees 
at  the  outset,  that  if  it  be  powerful,  it  is  because  this 
is  no  simple  spring,  but  a  kind  of  lake,  a  deep  reservoir 
wherein  other  springs  have,  for  a  multitude  of  centuries, 
discharged  their  several  streams. 

Having  thus  outlined  the  interior  structure  of  a  race, 
we  must  consider  the  surroundings  in  which  it  exists. 
For  man  is  not  alone  in  the  world ;  nature  surrounds 
him,  and  his  fellow-men  surround  him;  accidental 
and  secondary  tendencies  overlay  his  primitive  ten- 
dencies, and  physical  or  social  circumstances  disturb 
or  confirm  the  character  committed  to  their  charge. 
Sometimes  the  climate  has  had  its  effect.  Though  we 
can  follow  but  obscurely  the  Aryan  peoples  from  their 
common  fatherland  to  their  final  settlements,  we  can  yet 
assert  that  the  profound  differences  which  are  manifest 
between  the  German  races  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
Greek  and  Latin  on  the  other,  arise  for  the  most  part 
from  the  difference  between  the  countries  in  which  they 
are  settled :  some  in  cold  moist  lands,  deep  in  rugged 
marshy  forests  or  on  the  shores  of  a  wild  ocean,  beset 
by  melancholy  or  violent  sensations,  prone  to  drunken- 
ness and  gluttony,  bent  on  a  fighting,  blood-spilling 
life ;  others,  again,  within  the  loveliest  landscapes,  on  a 
bright  and  pleasant  sea-coast,  enticed  to  navigation  and 
commerce,  exempt  from  gross  cravings  of  the  stomach, 
inclined  from  the  beginning  to  social  ways,  to  a  settled 
organisation  of  the  state,  to  feelings  and  dispositions 
such  as  develop  the  art  of  oratory,  the  talent  for  enjoy- 
ment, the  inventions  of  science,  letters,  arts.  Sometimes 
the  state  policy  has  been  at  work,  as  in  the  two  Italian  * 
civilisations  :  the  first  wholly  turned  to  action,  conquest, 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

government,  legislation,  on  account  of  the  original  site 
of  its  city  of  refuge,  its  border-land  emporium,  its  armed 
aristocracy,  who,  by  importing  and  drilling  strangers  and 
conquered,  created  two  hostile  armies,  having  no  escape 
from  its  internal  discords  and  its  greedy  instincts  but 
in  systematic  warfare ;  the  other,  shut  out  from  unity 
and  any  great  political  ambition  by  the  stability  of  its 
municipal  character,  the  cosmopolitan  position  of  its 
pope,  and  the  military  intervention  of  neighbouring 
nations,  directed  by  the  whole  bent  of  its  magnificent 
and  harmonious  genius  towards  the  worship  of  pleasure 
and  beauty.  Sometimes  the  social  conditions  have 
impressed  their  mark,  as  eighteen  centuries  ago  by 
Christianity,  and  twenty-five  centuries  ago  by  Buddhism, 
when  around  the  Mediterranean,  as  well  as  in  Hindostan, 
the  extreme  results  of  Aryan  conquest  and  civilisation 
induced  intolerable  oppression,  the  subjugation  of  the 
individual,  utter  despair,  the  thought  that  the  world  was 
cursed,  with  the  development  of  metaphysics  and  myth, 
so  that  man  in  this  dungeon  of  misery,  feeling  his  heart 
softened,  begot  the  idea  of  abnegation,  charity,  tender 
love,  gentleness,  humility,  brotherly  love — there,  in  a 
notion  of  universal  nothingness,  here  under  the  Father- 
hood of  God.  Look  around  you  upon  the  regulating  in- 
stincts and  faculties  implanted  in  a  race — in  short,  the 
mood  of  intelligence  in  which  it  thinks  and  acts  at  the 
present  time  :  you  will  discover  most  often  the  work  of 
some  one  of  these  prolonged  situations,  these  surrounding 
circumstances,  persistent  and  gigantic  pressures,  brought 
to  bear  upon  an  aggregate  of  men  who,  singly  and  to- 
gether, from  generation  to  generation,  are  continually 
moulded  and  modelled  by  their  action ;  in  Spain,  a 
cmsade  against  the  Mussulmans  wJu'ch  lasted  eight  ceu- 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

turies,  protracted  even  beyond  and  until  the  exhaustion 
of  the  nation  by  the  expulsion  of  the  Moors,  the  spoli- 
ation of  the  Jews,  the  establishment  of  the  Inquisition, 
the  Catholic  wars ;  in  England,  a  political  establishment 
of  eight  centuries,  which  keeps  a  man  erect  and  respect- 
ful, in  independence  and  obedience,  and  accustoms  him 
to  strive  unitedly,  under  the  authority  of  the  law ;  in 
France,  a  Latin  organisation,  which,  imposed  first  upon 
docile  barbarians,  then  shattered  in  the  universal  crash, 
was  reformed  from  within  under  a  lurking  conspiracy  of 
the  national  instinct,  was  developed  under  hereditary 
kings,  ends  in  a  sort  of  levelling  republic,  centralised, 
administrative,  under  dynasties  exposed  to  revolution. 
These  are  the  most  efficacious  of  the  visible  causes  which 
mould  the  primitive  man  :  they  are  to  nations  what 
education,  career,  condition,  abode,  are  to  individuals ; 
and  they  seem  to  comprehend  everything,  since  they 
comprehend  all  external  powers  which  mould  human 
matter,  and  by  which  the  external  acts  on  the  internal. 

There  is  yet  a  third  rank  of  causes ;  for,  with  the  EPOCH. 
forces  within  and  without,  there  is  the  work  which  they 
have  already  produced  together,  and  this  work  itself 
contributes  to  produce  that  which  follows.  Beside  the 
permanent  impulse  and  the  given  surroundings,  there  is 
the  acquired  momentum.  When  the  national  character 
and  surrounding  circumstances  operate,  it  is  not  upon 
a  tabula  rasa,  but  on  a  ground  on  which  marks  are 
already  impressed.  According  as  one  takes  the  ground 
at  one  moment  or  another,  the  imprint  is  different ; 
and  this  is  the  cause  that  the  total  effect  is  different 
Consider,  for  instance,  two  epochs  of  a  literature  or 
art, — French  tragedy  under  Corneille  and  under  Vol- 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

taire,  tlie  Greek  drama  under  ^Eschylus  and  under 
Euripides,  Italian  painting  under  da  Vinci  and  under 
Guido.  Truly,  at  either  of  these  two  extreme  points 
the  general  idea  has  not  changed;  it  is  always  C:ie 
same  human  type  which  is  its  subject  of  representation 
or  painting;  the  mould  of  verse,  the  structure  of  the 
drama,  the  form  of  body  has  endured.  But  among 
several  differences  there  is  this,  that  the  one  artist  is 
the  precursor,  the  other  the  successor ;  the  first  has  no 
model,  the  second  has ;  the  first  sees  objects  face  to 
face,  the  second  sees  them  through  the  first ;  that  many 
great  branches  of  art  are  lost,  many  details  are  perfected, 
that  simplicity  and  grandeur  of  impression  have  di- 
minished, pleasing  and  refined  forms  have  increased, — 
in  short,  that  the  first  work  has  influenced  the  second. 
Thus  it  is  with  a  people  as  with  a  plant ;  the  same  sap, 
under  the  same  temperature,  and  in  the  same  soil,  pro- 
duces, at  different  steps  of  its  progressive  development, 
different  formations,  buds,  flowers,  fruits,  seed-vessels,  in 
such  a  manner  that  the  one  which  follows  must  always 
be  preceded  by  the  former,  and  must  spring  up  from 
its  death.  And  if  now  you  consider  no  longer  a  brief 
epoch,  as  our  own  time,  but  one  of  those  wide  intervals 
which  embrace  one  or  more  centuries,  like  the  middle 
ages,  or  our  last  classic  age,  the  conclusion  will  be 
similar.  A  certain  dominant  idea  has  had  sway ;  men, 
for  two,  for  five  hundred  years,  have  taken  to  themselves 
a  certain  ideal  model  of  man :  in  the  middle  ages,  the 
knight  and  the  monk ;  in  our  classic  age,  the  courtier, 
the  man  who  speaks  well.  This  creative  and  universal 
idea  is  displayed  over  the  whole  field  of  action  and 
thought;  and  after  covering  the  world  with  its  involun- 
tarily systematic  works,  it  has  faded,  it  has  died  away, 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

and  lo,  a  new  idea  springs  up,  destined  to  a  like 
domination,  and  as  manifold  creations.  And  here 
remember  that  the  second  depends  in  part  upon  the 
first,  and  that  the  first,  uniting  its  effect  with  those  of 
national  genius  and  surrounding  circumstances,  imposes 
on  each  new  creation  its  bent  and  direction.  The 
great  historical  currents  are  formed  after  this  law — the 
long  dominations  of  one  intellectual  pattern,  or  a 
master  idea,  such  as  the  period  of  spontaneous  creations 
called  the  Eenaissance,  or  the  period  of  oratorical 
models  called  the  Classical  Age,  or  the  series  of  mystical 
systems  called  the  Alexandrian  and  Christian  eras,  or 
the  series  of  mythological  efflorescences  which  we  meet 
with  in  the  infancy  of  the  German  people,  of  the  Indian 
and  the  Greek.  Here  as  elsewhere  we  have  but  a  History  is  a 
mechanical  probl-em ;  the  total  effect  is  a  result,  depend-  ™A  psycho- 
ing  entirely  on  the  magnitude  and  direction  of  the  1°sical  P™- 

°          .          J  blem.    With 

producing  causes.  The  only  difference  which  separates  in  certain 
these  moral  problems  from  physical  ones  is,  that  the  ^'^retlu 
magnitude  and  direction  cannot  be  valued  or  computed 
in  the  first  as  in  the  second.  If  a  need  or  a  faculty  is 
a  quantity,  capable  of  degrees,  like  a  pressure  or  a 
weight,  this  quantity  is  not  measurable  like  the  pressure 
or  the  weight.  We  cannot  define  it  in  an  exact  or 
approximative  formula ;  we  cannot  have  more,  or  give 
more,  in  respect  of  it,  than  a  literary  impression ;  we 
are  limited  to  marking  and  quoting  the  salient  points 
by  which  it  is  manifested,  and  which  indicate  approxi- 
mately and  roughly  the  part  of  the  scale  which  is  its 
position.  But  though  the  means  of  notation  are  not 
the  same  in  the  moral  and  physical  sciences,  yet  as  in 
both  the  matter  is  the  same,  equally  made  up  of  forces, 
magnitudes,  and  directions,  we  may  say  that  in  both 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

the  final  result  is  produced  after  the  same  method.  It 
is  great  or  small,  as  the  fundamental  forces  are  great 
or  small  and  act  more  or  less  exactly  in  the  same  sense, 
according  as  the  distinct  effects  of  race,  circumstance, 
and  epoch  combine  to  add  the  one  to  the  other,  or  to 
annul  one  another.  Thus  are  explained  the  long 
impotences  and  the  brilliant  triumphs  which  make  their 
appearance  irregularly  and  without  visible  cause  in  the 
life  of  a  people ;  they  are  caused  by  internal  concords 
or  contrarieties.  There  was  such  a  concord  when  in 
the  seventeenth  century  the  sociable  character  and  the 
conversational  aptitude,  innate  in  France,  encountered 
the  drawing-room  manners  and  the  epoch  of  oratorical 
analysis ;  when  in  the  nineteenth  century  the  profound 
and  pliant  genius  of  Germany  encountered  the  age  of 
philosophical  systems  and  of  cosmopolitan  criticism. 
There  was  such  a  contrariety  when  in  the  seventeenth 
century  the  harsh  and  lonely  English  genius  tried 
blunderingly  to  adopt  a  new-born  politeness ;  when  in 
the  sixteenth  century  the  lucid  and  prosaic  French 
spirit  tried  vainly  to  bring  forth  a  living  poetry.  That 
hidden  concord  of  creative  forces  produced  the  finished 
urbanity  and  the  noble  and  regular  literature  under 
Louis  XIV.  and  Bossuet,  the  grand  metaphysics  and 
broad  critical  sympathy  of  Hegel  and  Goethe.  That 
hidden  contrariety  of  creative  forces  produced  the  im- 
perfect literature,  the  scandalous  comedy,  the  abortive 
drama  under  Dryden  and  Wycherley,  the  feeble  Greek 
importations,  the  groping  elaborate  efforts,  the  scant 
half-graces  under  Ronsard  and  the  Pleiad.  So  much 
we  can  say  with  confidence,  that  the  unknown  creations 
towards  which  the  current  of  the  centuries  conducts  xis, 
will  be  raised  up  and  regulated  altogether  by  the  three 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

primordial  forces ;  that  if  these  forces  could  be  measured 
and  computed,  we  might  deduce  from  them  as  from  a 
formula  the  characteristics  of  future  civilisation ;  and 
that  if,  in  spite  of  the  evident  crudeness  of  our  nota- 
tions, and  the  fundamental  inexactness  of  our  measures, 
we  try  now  to  form  some  idea  of  our  general  destiny, 
it  is  upon  an  examination  of  these  forces  that  we  must 
base  our  prophecy.  For  in  enumerating  them,  we 
traverse  the  complete  circle  of  the  agencies;  and  when  we 
have  considered  RACE,  SURROUNDINGS,  and  EPOCH,  which 
are  the  internal  mainsprings,  the  external  pressure,  and 
the  acquired  momentum,  we  have  exhausted  not  only 
the  whole  of  the  actual  causes,  but  also  the  whole  of 
the  possible  causes  of  motion. 


VL 

It  remains  for  us  to  examine  how  these  causes,  when  Production 

i>    j     ,  ,•  j  ,-%      •  i,       of  the  results 

applied  to  a  nation  or  an  age,  produce  their  results.  ofaprimor. 
As  a  spring,  rising  from  a  height  and  flowing  downwards  dial  cause- 

Common 

spreads  its  streams,  according  to  the  depth  of  the  descent,  elements. 
stage  after  stage,  until  it  reaches  the  lowest  level  of  the 


soil,  so  the  disposition  of  intellect  or  soul  impressed  on  Law  of 

,       ,  .  ,  ,  mutual  de- 

a  people  by  race,  circumstance,  or  epoch,  spreads  in  pendeuce. 


different  proportions  and  by  regular  descents,  down  the 

*  portional 

diverse  orders  of  facts  which  make  up  its  civilisation.1  i 
If  we  arrange  the  map  of  a  country,  starting  from  the 
watershed,  we  find  that  below  this  common  point  the 
streams  are  divided  into  five  or  six  principal  basins, 

1  For  this  scale  of  co-ordinate  effects,  consult  Renan,  Langues  Stmi- 
tiques,  ch.  i.  ;  Mommsen,  Comparison  between  the  Greek  and  Roman 
Civilisations,  ch.  ii.  vol.  i.  3d  ed.  ;  Tocqueville,  Consequences  de  la 
Democratic  en  Amtrique,  vol.  ill 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

then  each  of  these  into  several  secondary  basins,  and  so 
on,  until  the  whole  country  with  its  thousand  details  is 
included  in  the  ramifications  of  this  network.     So,  if 
we  arrange  the  psychological  map  of  the  events  and 
sensations  of  a  human  civilisation,  we  find  first  of  all 
five  or  six  well-defined  provinces — religion,  art,  philo- 
sophy, the  state,  the  family,  the  industries  ;  then  in  each 
of  these  provinces  natural  departments ;  and  in  each  of 
these,  smaller  territories,  until  we  arrive  at  the  number- 
less details  of  life  such  as  may  be  observed  within  and 
around  us  every  day.     If  now  we  examine  and  compare 
these  diverse  groups  of  facts,  we  find  first  of  all  that 
they  are  made  up  of  parts,  and  that  all  have  parts  in 
common.     Let  us  take  first  the  three  chief  works  of 
human  intelligence — religion,  art,  philosophy.     What 
is  a  philosophy  but  a  conception  of  nature  and  its  prim- 
ordial causes,  under  the  form  of  abstractions  and  formu- 
lae ?     What  is  there  at  the  bottom  of  a  religion  or  of 
an  art  but  a  conception  of  this  same  nature  and  of  these 
same  causes  under  form  of  symbols  more  or  less  precise, 
and  personages  more  or  less  marked;  with  this  difference, 
that  in  the  first  we  believe  that  they  exist,  in  the  second 
we  believe  that  they  do  not  exist  ?     Let  the  reader  con- 
sider a  few  of  the  great  creations  of  the  intelligence  in 
India,  Scandinavia,  Persia,  Rome,  Greece,  and  he  will 
see  that,  throughout,  art  is  a  kind  of  philosophy  made 
sensible,  religion  a  poem  taken  for  true,  philosophy  an 
art  and  a  religion  dried  up,  and  reduced  to  simple  ideas. 
There  is  therefore,  at  the  core  of  each  of  these  three 
groups,  a  common  element,  the  conception  of  the  world 
and  its  principles ;  and  if  they  differ  among  themselves, 
it  is  because  each  combines  with  the  common,  a  distinct 
element :  now  the  power  of  abstraction,  again  the  power 


INTRODUCTION.  27 

to  personify  and  to  believe,  and  finally  the  power  to 
personify  and  not  believe.  Let  us  now  take  the  two 
chief  works  of  human  association,  the  family  and  the 
state.  What  forms  the  state  but  a  sentiment  of  obedi- 
ence, by  which  the  many  unite  under  the  authority  of  a 
chief  ?  And  what  forms  the  family  but  the  sentiment 
of  obedience  by  which  wife  and  children  act  under  the 
direction  of  a  father  and  husband  ?  The  family  is  a 
natural  state,  primitive  and  restrained,  as  the  state  is 
an  artificial  family,  ulterior  and  expanded;  and  under- 
neath the  differences  arising  from  the  number,  origin,  and 
condition  of  its  members,  we  discover  in  the  small  society 
as  in  the  great,  a  like  disposition  of  the  fundamental 
intelligence  which  assimilates  and  unites  them.  Now 
suppose  that  this  element  receives  from  circumstance, 
race,  or  epoch  certain  special  marks,  it  is  clear  that  all 
the  groups  into  which  it  enters  will  be  modified  propor- 
tionately. If  the  sentiment  of  obedience  is  merely  fear,1 
you  will  find,  as  in  most  Oriental  states,  a  brutal 
despotism,  exaggerated  punishment,  oppression  of  the 
subject,  servility  of  manners,  insecurity  of  property, 
impoverished  production,  the  slavery  of  women,  and  the 
customs  of  the  harem.  If  the  sentiment  of  obedience 
has  its  root  in  the  instinct  of  order,  sociality,  and  honour, 
you  will  find,  as  in  France,  a  perfect  military  organ- 
isation, a  fine  administrative  hierarchy,  a  want  of  public 
spirit  with  occasional  jerks  of  patriotism,  ready  docility 
of  the  subject  with  a  revolutionary  impatience,  the 
cringing  courtier  with  the  counter-efforts  of  the  high- 
bred man,  the  refined  pleasure  of  conversation  and 
society  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  worry  at  the  fireside 
and  among  the  family  on  the  other,  the  equality  of 

1  Montesquieu,  Esprit  dcs  Lois,  Principes  des  trois  gouverneinents. 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

husband  and  wife,  the  imperfection  of  the  married 
state,  and  consequently  the  necessary  constraint  of  the 
law.  If,  again,  the  sentiment  of  obedience  has  its  root 
in  the  instinct  of  subordination  and  the  idea  of  duty, 
you  will  find,  as  among  the  Germans,  security  and  hap- 
piness in  the  household,  a  solid  basis  of  domestic  life,  a 
tardy  and  incomplete  development  of  social  and  con- 
versational life,  an  innate  respect  for  established  dig- 
nities, a  superstitious  reverence  for  the  past,  the  keep- 
ing up  of  social  inequalities,  natural  and  habitual  regard 
for  the  law.  So  in  a  race,  according  as  the  aptitude  for 
general  ideas  varies,  religion,  art,  and  philosophy  vary. 
If  man  is  naturally  inclined  to  the  widest  universal  con- 
ceptions, and  apt  to  disturb  them  at  the  same  time  by 
the  nervous  delicacy  of  his  over-sensitive  organisation, 
you  will  find,  as  in  India,  an  astonishing  abundance  of 
gigantic  religious  creations,  a  glowing  outgrowth  of  vast 
and  transparent  epic  poems,  a  strange  tangle  of  subtle 
and  imaginative  philosophies,  all  so  well  interwoven, 
and  so  penetrated  with  a  common  essence,  as  to  be 
instantly  recognised,  by  their  breadth,  their  colouring, 
and  their  want  of  order,  as  the  products  of  the  same 
climate  and  the  same  intelligence.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  a  man  naturally  staid  and  balanced  in  mind 
limits  of  his  own  accord  the  scope  of  his  ideas,  in  order 
the  better  to  define  their  form,  you  will  find,  as  in 
Greece,  a  theology  of  artists  and  tale-tellers ;  distinc- 
tive gods,  soon  considered  distinct  from  things,  and 
transformed,  almost  at  the  outset,  into  recognised  per- 
sonages; the  sentiment  of  universal  unity  all  but 
effaced,  and  barely  preserved  in  the  vague  notion  of 
Destiny ;  a  philosophy  rather  close  and  delicate  than 
grand  and  systematic,  witk  shortcomings  in  higher. 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

metaphysics,1  but  incomparable  for  logic,  sophistry, 
and  morals ;  poetry  and  arts  superior  for  clearness,  art- 
lessness,  just  proportions,  truth,  and  beauty,  to  all  that 
have  ever  been  known.  If,  once  more,  man,  reduced 
to  narrow  conceptions,  and  deprived  of  all  speculative 
refinement,  is  at  the  same  time  altogether  absorbed  and 
straitened  by  practical  occupations,  you  will  find,  as  in 
Rome,  rudimentary  deities,  mere  hollow  names,  serving 
to  designate  the  trivial  details  of  agriculture,  generation, 
household  concerns,  customs  about  marriage,  rural  life, 
producing  a  mythology,  hence  a  philosophy,  a  poetry, 
either  worth  nothing  or  borrowed.  Here,  as  everywhere, 
the  law  of  mutual  dependence2  comes  into  play.  A  civi- 
lisation forms  a  body,  and  its  parts  are  connected  with 
each  other  like  the  parts  of  an  organic  body.  As  in  an 
animal,  instincts,  teeth,  limbs,  osseous  structure,  mus- 
cular envelope,  are  mutually  connected,  so  that  a  change 
in  one  produces  a  corresponding  change  in  the  rest,  and 
a  clever  naturalist  can  by  a  process  of  reasoning  recon- 
struct out  of  a  few  fragments  almost  the  whole  body ; 
even  so  in  a  civilisation,  religion,  philosophy,  the  organ- 
isation of  the  family,  literature,  the  arts,  make  up  a 
system  in  which  every  local  change  induces  a  general 
change,  so  that  an  experienced  historian,  studying  some 
particular  part  of  it,  sees  in  advance  and  half  predicts 
the  character  of  the  rest.  There  is  nothing  vague  in 
this  interdependence.  In  the  living  body  the  regulator 

1  The  Alexandrian  philosophy  had  its  birth  from  the  West  The 
metaphysical  notions  of  Aristotle  are  isolated  ;  moreover,  with  him  as 
with  Plato,  they  are  but  a  sketch.  By  way  of  contrast  consider  the 
systematic  vigour  of  Plotinus,  Proclus,  Schelling,  and  Hegel,  or  the 
wonderful  boldness  of  Brahminical  and  Buddhistic  speculation. 

y  I  have  endeavoured  on  several  occasions  to  give  expression  to  this 
law,  notably  in  the  preface  to  Essais  de  Critique  et  d'Histoire. 


30  INTRODUCTION. 

is,  first,  its  tendency  to  manifest  a  certain  primary  type  ; 
then  its  necessity  for  organs  whereby  to  satisfy  its  wants 
and  to  be  in  harmony  with  itself  in  order  that  it  may 
live.  In  a  civilisation,  the  regulator  is  the  presence,  in 
every  great  human  creation,  of  a  productive  element, 
present  also  in  other  surrounding  creations, — to  wit, 
some  faculty,  aptitude,  disposition,  effective  and  discern- 
ible, which,  being  possessed  of  its  proper  character, 
introduces  it  into  all  the  operations  in  which  it  assists, 
and,  according  to  its  variations,  causes  all  the  works  in 
which  it  co-operates  to  vary  also. 

VII. 

Law  of  for-  At  this  point  we  can  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  prin- 
^u°n°E*  cipal  features  of  human  transformations,  and  begin  to 
angles  and  search  for  the  general  laws  which  regulate,  not  events 

indications.  ,  ,  ,         ,.    . 

only,  but  classes  of  events,  not  such  and  such  religion 
or  literature,  but  a  group  of  literatures  or  religions. 
If,  for  instance,  it  were  admitted  that  a  religion  is  a 
metaphysical  poem,  accompanied  by  belief ;  and  remark- 
ing at  the  same  time  that  there  are  certain  epochs, 
races,  and  circumstances  in  which  belief,  the  poetical 
and  metaphysical  faculty,  show  themselves  with  an 
unwonted  vigour ;  if  we  consider  that  Christianity  and 
Buddhism  were  produced  at  periods  of  high  philosophi- 
cal conceptions,  and  amid  such  miseries  as  raised  up 
the  fanatics  of  the  CeVennes ;  if  we  recognise,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  primitive  religions  are  born  at  the 
awakening  of  human  reason,  during  the  richest  blossom- 
ing of  human  imagination,  at  a  time  of  the  fairest 
artlessness  and  the  greatest  credulity;  if  we  consider, 
also,  that  Mohammedanism  appeared  with  the  dawning 
of  poetic  prose,  and  the  conception  of  national  unity, 


INTRODUCTION.  31 

amongst  a  people  destitute  of  science,  at  a  period  of 
sudden  development  of  the  intellect, — we  might  then 
conclude  that  a  religion  is  born,  declines,  is  reformed 
and  transformed  according  as  circumstances  confirm  and 
combine  with  more  or  less  exactitude  and  force  its  three 
generative  instincts ;  and  we  should  understand  why 
it  is  endemic  in  India,  amidst  imaginative,  philosophic, 
eminently  fanatic  brains;  why  it  blossomed  forth  so 
strangely  and  grandly  in  the  middle  ages,  amidst  an 
oppressive  organisation,  new  tongues  and  literatures ; 
why  it  was  aroused  in  the  sixteenth  century  with  a 
new  character '  and  heroic  enthusiasm,  amid  universal 
regeneration,  and  during  the  awakening  of  the  German 
races ;  why  it  breaks  out  into  eccentric  sects  amid  the 
coarse  American  democracy,  and  under  the  bureaucratic 
Eussian  despotism ;  why,  in  short,  it  is  spread,  at  the 
present  day,  over  Europe  in  such  different  dimensions 
and  such  various  characteristics,  according  to  the  dif- 
ferences of  race  and  civilisation.  And  so  for  every 
kind  of  human  production — for  literature,  music,  the 
fine  arts,  philosophy,  science,  the  state,  industries,  and 
the  rest.  Each  of  these  has  for  its  direct  cause  a  moral 
disposition,  or  a  combination  of  moral  dispositions  :  the 
cause  given,  they  appear;  the  cause  withdrawn,  they 
vanish  :  the  weakness  or  intensity  of  the  cause  measures 
their  weakness  or  intensity.  They  are  bound  up  with 
their  causes,  as  a  physical  phenomenon  with  its  condition, 
as  the  dew  with  the  fall  of  the  variable  temperature, 
as  dilatation  with  heat.  There  are  similarly  connected 
data  in  the  moral  as  in  the  physical  world,  as  rigorously 
bound  together,  and  as  universally  extended  in  the  one 
as  in  the  other.  Whatever  in  the  one  case  produces, 
alters,  or  suppresses  the  first  term,  produces,  alters,  or 


32  INTRODUCTION. 

suppresses  the  second  as  a  necessary  consequence. 
Whatever  lowers  the  surrounding  temperature,  deposits 
the  dew.  Whatever  develops  credulity  side  by  side  with 
a  poetical  conception  of  the  world,  engenders  religion. 
Thus  phenomena  have  been  produced  ;  thus  they  will 
be  produced.  As  soon  as  we  know  the  sufficient  and 
necessary  condition  of  one  of  these  vast  occurrences, 
our  understanding  grasps  the  future  as  well  as  the  past. 
We  can  say  with  confidence  in  what  circumstances  it 
will  reappear,  foretell  without  presumption  many  por- 
tions of  its  future  history,  and  sketch  cautiously  some 
features  of  its  ulterior  development. 

VIII. 

General  History  now  attempts,  or  rather  is  very  near  attempt- 

r  ™ureof  hS  ing  this  method  of  research.  The  question  propounded 
t,,ry.  Psy-  now-a-days  is  of  this  kind.  Given  a  literature,  philo- 
method!  sophy,  society,  art,  group  of  arts,  what  is  the  moral 
value  of  condition  which  produced  it  ?  what  the  conditions  of 

literature.  * 

purpose  in    race,  epoch,  circumstance,  the  most  fitted  to  produce 
iting  this  ^.g  m()raj  con^ition  ?     There  is  a  distinct  moral  con- 


dition for  each  of  these  formations,  and  for  each  of 
their  branches  ;  one  for  art  in  general,  one  for  each 
kind  of  art  —  for  architecture,  painting,  sculpture,  music, 
poetry  ;  each  has  its  special  germ  in  the  wide  field  of 
human  psychology;  each  has  its  law,  and  it  is  by 
virtue  of  this  law  that  we  see  it  raised,  by  chance,  as  it 
seems,  wholly  alone,  amid  the  miscarriage  of  its  neigh- 
bours, like  painting  in  Flanders  and  Holland  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  poetry  in  England  in  the  sixteenth, 
music  in  Germany  in  the  eighteenth.  At  this  moment, 
and  in  these  countries,  the  conditions  have  been  ful- 
filled for  one  art,  not  for  others,  and  a  single  branch 


V-I.  P-32. 


CHARLES    DARWIN 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

has  budded  in  the  general  barrenness.  History  must 
search  now-a-days  for  these  rules  of  human  growth ; 
with  the  special  psychology  of  each  special  formation  it 
must  occupy  itself;  the  finished  picture  of  these 
characteristic  conditions  it  must  now  labour  to  compose. 
No  task  is  more  delicate  or  more  difficult ;  Montesquieu 
tried  it,  but  in  his  time  history  was  too  new  to  admit 
of  his  success;  they  had  not  yet  even  a  suspicion  of 
the  road  necessary  to  be  travelled,  and  hardly  now  do 
we  begin  to  catch  sight  of  it.  Just  as  in  its  elements 
astronomy  is  a  mechanical  and  physiology  a  chemical- 
problem,  so  history  in  its  elements  is  a  psychological 
problem.  There  is  a  particular  system  of  inner  im- 
pressions and  operations  which  makes  an  artist,  a 
believer,  a  musician,  a  painter,  a  man  in  a  nomadic  or 
social  state;  and  of  each  the  birth  and  growth,  the 
energy,  the  connection  of  ideas  and  emotions,  are  differ- 
ent :  each  has  his  moral  history  and  his  special  structure, 
with  some  governing  disposition  and  some  dominant 
feature.  To  explain  each,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
write  a  chapter  of  psychological  analysis,  and  barely 
yet  has  such  a  method  been  rudely  sketched.  One 
man  alone,  Stendhal,  with  a  peculiar  bent  of  mind  and 
a  strange  education,  has  undertaken  it,  and  to  this  day 
the  majority  of  readers  find  his  books  paradoxical  and 
obscure  :  his  talent  and  his  ideas  were  premature ;  his 
admirable  divinations  were  not  understood,  any  more 
than  his  profound  sayings  thrown  out  cursorily,  or  the 
astonishing  precision  of  his  system  and  of  his  logic. 
It  was  not  perceived  that,  under  the  exterior  of  a  con- 
versationalist and  a  man  of  the  world,  he  explained  the 
most  complicated  of  esoteric  mechanisms ;  that  he  laid 
his  finger  on  the  mainsprings  ;  that  he  introduced  into 
VOL.  L  D 


34  INTRODUCTION. 

the  history  of  the  heart  scientific  processes,  the  art  of 
notation,  decomposition,  deduction  ;  that  he  first  marked 
the  fundamental  causes  of  nationality,  climate,  tempera- 
ment;  in  short,  that  he  treated  sentiments  as  they 
should  be  treated,. — in  the  manner  of  the  naturalist, 
and  of  the  natural  philosopher,  who  classifies  and 
weighs  forces.  For  this  very  reason  he  was  consi- 
dered dry  and  eccentric :  he  remained  solitary,  writing 
novels,  voyages,  notes,  for  which  he  sought  and  obtained 
a  score  of  readers.  And  yet  we  find  in  his  books  at 
the  present  day  essays  the  most  suitable  to  open  the 
path  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  describe.  No  one 
has  better  taught  us  how  to  open  our  eyes  and  see,  to 
see  first  the  men  that  surround  us  and  the  life  that 
is  present,  then  the  ancient  and  authentic  docu- 
ments, to  read  between  the  black  and  white  lines  of 
the  pages,  to  recognise  beneath  the  old  impression, 
under  the  scribbling  of  a  text,  the  precise  sentiment, 
the  movement  of  ideas,  the  state  of  mind  in  which  they 
were  written.  In  his  writings,  in  Sainte-Beuve,  in  the 
German  critics,  the  reader  will  see  all  the  wealth  that 
may  be  drawn  from  a  literary  work  :  when  the  work  is 
rich,  and  people  know  how  to  interpret  it,  we  find 
there  the  psychology  of  a  soid,  frequently  of  an  age, 
now  and  then  of  a  race.  In  this  light,  a  great  poem, 
a  fine  novel,  the  confessions  of  a  superior  man,  are 
more  instructive  than  a  heap  of  historians  with  their 
histories.  I  would  give  fifty  volumes  of  charters  and  a 
hundred  volumes  of  state  papers  for  the  memoirs  of 
Cellini,  the  epistles  of  St.  Paul,  the  Table-talk  of 
Luther,  or  the  comedies  of  Aristophanes.  In  this  con- 
sists the  importance  of  literary  works  :  they  are  instruc- 
tive because  they  are  beautiful;  their  utility  grows 


INTRODUCTION.  35 

with  their  perfection  ;  and  if  they  furnish  documents  it 
is  because  they  are  monuments.  The  more  a  book 
brings  sentiments  into  light,  the  more  it  is  a  work  of 
literature ;  for  the  proper  office  of  literature  is  to  make 
sentiments  visible.  The  more  a  book  represents  im- 
portant sentiments,  the  higher  is  its  place  in  literature ; 
for  it  is  by  representing  the  mode  of  being  of  a  whole 
nation  and  a  whole  age,  that  a  writer  rallies  round  him 
the  sympathies  of  an  entire  age  and  an  entire  nation. 
This  is  why,  amid  the  writings  which  set  before  our 
eyes  the  sentiments  of  preceding  generations,  a  litera- 
ture, and  notably  a  grand  literature,  is  incomparably 
the  best.  It  resembles  those  admirable  apparatus  of 
extraordinary  sensibility,  by  which  physicians  disen- 
tangle and  measure  the  most  recondite  and  delicate 
changes  of  a  body.  Constitutions,  religions,  do  not 
approach  it  in  importance ;  the  articles  of  a  code  of 
laws  and  of  a  creed  only  show  us  the  spirit  roughly 
and  without  delicacy.  If  there  are  any  writings  in 
which  politics  and  dogma  are  full  of  life,  it  is  in  the 
eloquent  discourses  of  the  pulpit  and  the  tribune, 
memoirs,  unrestrained  confessions ;  and  all  this  be- 
longs to  literature :  so  that,  in  addition  to  itself,  it  has 
all  the  advantage  of  other  works.  It  is  then  chiefly 
by  the  study  of  literatures  that  one  may  construct  a 
moral  history,  and  advance  toward  the  knowledge  of 
psychological  laws,  from  which  events  spring. 

I  intend  to  write  the  history  of  a  literature,  and  to 
seek  in  it  for  the  psychology  of  a  people  :  if  I  have 
chosen  this  nation  in  particular,  it  is  not  without  a 
reason.  I  had  to  find  a  people  with  a  grand  and  com- 
plete literature,  and  this  is  rare  :  there  are  few  nations 
who  have,  during  their  whole  existence,  really  thought 


36  INTRODUCTION. 

and  written.  Among  the  ancients,  the  Latin  literature 
is  worth  nothing  at  the  outset,  then  it  borrowed  and  be- 
came imitative.  Among  the  moderns,  German  literature 
does  not  exist  for  nearly  two  centuries.1  Italian  litera- 
ture and  Spanish  literature  end  at  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  Only  ancient  Greece,  modern 
France  and  England,  offer  a  complete  series  of  great  sig- 
nificant monuments.  I  have  chosen  England,  because 
being  still  living,  and  subject  to  direct  exammation,it  may 
be  better  studied  than  a  destroyed  civilisation,  of  which 
we  retain  but  the  relics,  and  because,  being  different 
from  France,  it  has  in  the  eyes  of  a  Frenchman  a  more 
distinct  character.  Besides,  there  is  a  peculiarity  in 
this  civilisation,  that  apart  from  its  spontaneous  develop- 
ment, it  presents  a  forced  deviation,  it  has  suffered  the 
last  and  most  effectual  of  all  conquests,  and  the  three 
grounds  whence  it  has  sprung,  race,  climate,  the  Norman 
invasion,  may  be  observed  in  its  remains  with  perfect 
exactness  ;  so  that  we  may  examine  in  this  history  the 
two  most  powerful  moving  springs  of  human  transforma- 
tion, natural  bent  and  constraining  force,  and  we  may 
examine  them  without  uncertainty  or  gap,  in  a  series 
of  authentic  and  unmutilated  memorials. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  define  these  primary  springs, 
to  exhibit  their  gradual  effects,  to  explain  how  they 
have  ended  by  bringing  to  light  great  political,  religious, 
and  literary  works,  and  by  developing  the  recondite 
mechanism  whereby  the  Saxon  barbarian  has  been 
transformed  into  the  Englishman  of  to-day. 
1  From  1660  to  1760. 


HISTORY  OF  ENGLISH  LITEEATUEE. 

BOOK  I. 
THE   SOURCE. 

CHAPTEK  I. 

STfje  Saiotta. 

I. 

As  you  coast  the  North  Sea  from  the  Scheldt  to  Jutland, 
you  will  mark  in  the  first  place  that  the  characteristic 
feature  is  the  want  of  slope ;  marsh,  waste,  shoal ;  the 
rivers  hardly  drag  themselves  along,  swollen  and  slug- 
gish, with  long,  black-looking  waves ;  the  flooding  stream 
oozes  over  the  banks,  and  appears  further  on  in  stagnant 
pools.  In  Holland  the  soil  is  but  a  sediment  of  mud ; 
here  and  there  only  does  the  earth  cover  it  with  a  crust, 
shallow  and  brittle,  the  mere  alluvium  of  the  river,  which 
the  river  seems  ever  about  to  destroy.  Thick  clouds 
hover  above,  being  fed  by  ceaseless  exhalations.  They 
lazily  turn  their  violet  flanks,  grow  black,  suddenly 
descend  in  heavy  showers ;  the  vapour,  like  a  furuace- 
smoke,  crawls  for  ever  on  the  horizon.  Thus  watered, 
plants  multiply;  in  the  angle  between  Jutland  and 
the  continent,  in  a  fat  muddy  soil,  "  the  verdure  is  as 


38  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

fresh  as  that  of  England."1  Immense  forests  covered 
the  land  even  after  the  eleventh  century.  The  sap  of 
this  humid  country,  thick  and  potent,  circulates  in  man 
as  in  the  plants ;  man's  respiration,  nutrition,  sensations 
and  habits  affect  also  his  faculties  and  his  frame. 

The  land  produced  after  this  fashion  has  one  enemy, 
to  wit,  the  sea.  Holland  maintains  its  existence  only  by 
virtue  of  its  dykes.  In  1654  those  in  Jutland  burst, 
and  fifteen  thousand  of  the  inhabitants  were  swallowed 
up.  One  need  only  see  the  blast  of  the  North  swirl 
down  upon  the  low  level  of  the  soil,  wan  and  ominous  :2 
the  vast  yellow  sea  dashes  against  the  narrow  belt  of 
flat  coast  which  seems  incapable  of  a  moment's  resistance; 
the  wind  howls  and  bellows ;  the  sea-mews  cry ;  the 
poor  little  ships  flee  as  fast  as  they  can,  bending  almost 
to  the  gunwale,  and  endeavour  to  find  a  refuge  in  the 
mouth  of  the  river,  which  seems  as  hostile  as  the  sea. 
A  sad  and  precarious  existence,  as  it  were  face  to  face 
with  a  beast  of  prey.  The  Frisians,  in  their  ancient 
laws,  speak  already  of  the  league  they  have  made  against 
"  the  ferocious  ocean."  Even  in  a  calm  this  sea  is  unsafe. 
"Before  me  rolleth  a  waste  of  water  .  .  .  and  above  me 
go  rolling  the  storm-clouds,  the  formless  dark  grey 
daughters  of  air,  which  from  the  sea,  in  cloudy  buckets 
scoop  up  the  water,  ever  wearied  lifting  and  lifting,  and 
then  pour  it  again  in  the  sea,  a  mournful,  wearisome 

1  Malte-Brun,  iy.  398.  Not  counting  bays,  gulfs,  and  canals,  the 
sixteenth  part  of  the  country  is  covered  by  water.  The  dialect  of  Jut- 
land bears  still  a  great  resemblance  to  English. 

1  See  Ruysdaal's  painting  in  Mr.  Baring's  collection.  Of  the  three 
Saxon  islands,  North  Strandt,  Busen,  and  Heligoland,  North  Strandt 
was  inundated  by  the  sea  in  1300,  1483, 1532, 1615,  and  almost  destroyed 
in  1634.  Busen  is  a  level  plain,  beaten  by  storms,  which  it  has  been 
found  necessary  to  surround  by  a  dyke.  Heligoland  was  laid  waste  by 
the  sea  in  800,  1300,  1500,  1649,  the  last  time  so  violently  that  only  a 
portion  of  it  remained.— Turner,  Hist,  of  Angl.  Saxons,  1852,  i.  97. 


tiflAP.  r.  THE  SAXONS.  59 

business.  Over  the  sea,  flat  on  his  face,  lies  the  mon- 
strous, terrible  North  wind,  sighing  and  sinking  his 
voice  as  in  secret,  like  an  old  grumbler,  for  once  in 
good  humour,  unto  the  ocean  he  talks,  and  he  tells  her 
wonderful  stories." l  Eain,  wind,  and  surge  leave  room 
for  naught  but  gloomy  and  melancholy  thoughts.  The 
very  joy  of  the  billows  has  in  it  an  inexplicable  restless- 
ness and  harshness.  From  Holland  to  Jutland,  a  string  of 
small,  deluged  islands2  bears  witness  to  their  ravages; 
the  shifting  sands  which  the  tide  drifts  up  obstruct  and 
impede  the  banks  and  entrance  of  the  rivers.3  The 
first  Roman  fleet,  a  thousand  sail,  perished  there; 
to  this  day  ships  wait  a  month  or  more  in  sight  of 
port,  tossed  upon  the  great  white  waves,  not  daring-  to 
risk  themselves  in  the  shifting,  winding  channel,  notori- 
ous for  its  wrecks.  In  winter  a  breastplate  of  ice 
covers  the  two  streams;  the  sea  drives  back  the  frozen 
masses  as  they  descend ;  they  pile  themselves  with  a 
crash  upon  the  sandbanks,  and  sway  to  and  fro;  now 
and  then  you  may  see  a  vessel,  seized  as  in  a  vice, 
split  in  two  beneath  their  violence.  Picture,  in  this 
foggy  clime,  amid  hoar-frost  and  storm,  in  these 
marshes  and  forests,  half-naked  savages,  a  kind  of  wild 
beasts,  fishers  and  hunters,  but  especially  hunters  of 
men ;  these  are  they,  Saxons,  Angles,  Jutes,  Frisians  ;* 
later  on,  Danes,  who  during  the  fifth  and  the  ninth 
centuries,  with  their  swords  and  battle-axes,  took  and 
kept  the  island  of  Britain. 

1  Heine,  The  North  Sea,  translated  by  Charles  G.  Leland.  Seo  Tacitus, 
Ann.  book  2,  for  the  impressions  of  the  Romans,  "truculentiacceli." 

2  Watten,  Platen,  Sande,  Diineninseln. 

8  Nine  or  ten  miles  out,  near  Heligoland,  are  the  nearest  soundings 
of  about  fifty  fathoms. 

4  Palgrave,  Saxon  Commonwealth,  vol.  L 


40  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

A  rude  and  foggy  land,  like  their  own,  except  in  the 
depth  of  its  sea  and  the  safety  of  its  coasts,  which  one 
day  will  call  up  real  fleets  and  mighty  vessels ;  green 
England — the  word  rises  to  the  lips  and  expresses  all. 
Here  also  moisture  pervades  everything  ;  even  in  sum- 
mer the  mist  rises ;  even  on  clear  days  you  perceive  it 
fresh  from  the  great  sea-girdle,  or  rising  from  vast  but 
ever  slushy  meadows,  undulating  with  hill  and  dale, 
intersected  with  hedges  to  the  limit  of  the  horizon. 
Here  and  there  a  sunbeam  strikes  on  the  higher  grasses 
with  burning  flash,  and  the  splendour  of  the  verdure 
dazzles  and  almost  blinds  you.  The  overflowing  water 
straightens  the  flabby  stems ;  they  grow  up,  rank,  weak, 
and  filled  with  sap ;  a  sap  ever  renewed,  for  the  gray 
mists  creep  under  a  stratum  of  motionless  vapour,  and 
at  distant  intervals  the  rim  of  heaven  is  drenched  by 
heavy  showers.  "  There  are  yet  commons  as  at  the  time 
of  the  Conquest,  deserted,  abandoned,1  wild,  covered  with 
furze  and  thorny  plants,  with  here  and  there  a  horse 
grazing  in  solitude.  Joyless  scene,  unproductive  soil  !2 
What  a  labour  it  has  been  to  humanise  it !  What 
impression  it  must  have  made  on  the  men  of  the  South, 
the  Romans  of  Caesar !  I  thought,  when  I  saw  it,  of 
the  ancient  Saxons,  wanderers  from  West  and  North, 
who  came  to  settle  in  this  land  of  marsh  and  fogs,  on 
the  border  of  primeval  forests,  on  the  banks  of  these 
great  muddy  streams,  which  roll  down  their  slime  to 
meet  the  waves.8  They  must  have  lived  as  hunters 
and  swineherds;  growing,  as  before,  brawny,  fierce,  gloomy. 

1  Notes  of  a  Journey  in  England, 

*  Leonce  de   Lavergne,  De  I' Agriculture  anglaise.     "The  soil  is 
much  worse  than  that  of  France. " 

*  There  are  at  least  four  rivers  in  England  passing  by  the  name  of 
"  Ouae,"  which  is  only  another  form  of  " ooze." — T«. 


CHAP.  r.  THE  SAXONS.  41 

Take  civilisation  from  this  soil,  and  there  will  remain 
to  the  inhabitants  only  war,  the  chase,  gluttony,  drunk- 
enness. Smiling  love,  sweet  poetic  dreams,  art,  refined 
and  nimble  thought,  are  for  the  happy  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean.  Here  the  barbarian,  ill  housed  in  his 
mud-hovel,  who  hears  the  rain  pattering  whole  days 
among  the  oak  leaves — what  dreams  can  he  have,  gazing 
upon  his  mud-pools  and  his  sombre  sky?" 

II. 

Huge  white  bodies,  cool-blooded,  with  fierce  blue 
eyes,  reddish  flaxen  hair ;  ravenous  stomachs,  filled  with 
meat  and  cheese,  heated  by  strong  drinks;  of  a  cold 
temperament,  slow  to  love,1  home-stayers,  prone  to 
brutal  drunkenness :  these  are  to  this  day  the  features 
which  descent  and  climate  preserve  in  the  race,  and 
these  are  what  the  Roman  historians  discovered  in  their 
former  country.  There  is  no  living,  in  these  lands, 
without  abundance  of  solid  food ;  bad  weather  keeps 
people  at  home ;  strong  drinks  are  necessary  to  cheer 
them ;  the  senses  become  blunted,  the  muscles  are 
braced,  the  will  vigorous.  In  every  country  the  body 
of  man  is  rooted  deep  into  the  soil  of  nature ;  and  in 
this  instance  still  deeper,  because,  being  uncultivated, 
he  is  less  removed  from  nature.  In  Germany,  storm- 
beaten,  in  wretched  boats  of  hide,  amid  the  hardships 
and  dangers  of  seafaring  life,  they  were  pre-eminently 
adapted  for  endurance  and  enterprise,  inured  to  mis- 
fortune, scorners  of  danger.  Pirates  at  first :  of  all 

1  Tacitus,  De  moribus  Germanorum,  passim  :  Diem  noctemque  con- 
tinuare  potando,  nulli  probrum. — Sera  juvenum  Venus. — Totos  dies 
juxta  focum  atque  ignem  agunt.  Dargaud,  Voyage  en  Dane-mark. 
"They  take  six  meals  per  day,  the  first  at  live  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
One  should  see  the  faces  and  meals  at  Hamburg  and  at  Amsterdam." 


42  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

lands  of  hunting  the  man-hunt  is  most  profitable  and 
most  noble ;  they  left  the  care  of  the  laud  and  flocks 
to  the  women  and  slaves ;  seafaring,  war,  and  pillage l 
was  their  whole  idea  of  a  freeman's  work.  They  dashed 
to  sea  in  their  two-sailed  barks,  lauded  anywhere,  killed 
everything;  and  having  sacrificed  in  honour  of  their 
gods  the  tithe  of  their  prisoners,  and  leaving  behind 
them  the  red  light  of  their  burnings,  went  farther  on 
to  begin  again.  "  Lord,"  says  a  certain  litany,  "  deliver 
us  from  the  fury  of  the  Jutes."  "  Of  all  barbarians2 
these  are  strongest  of  body  and  heart,  the  most  formid- 
able,"— we  may  add,  the  most  cruelly  ferocious.  When 
murder  becomes  a  trade,  it  becomes  a  pleasure.  About 
the  eighth  century,  the  final  decay  of  the  great  Eoman 
corpse  which  Charlemagne  had  tried  to  revive,  and 
which  was  settling  down  into  corruption,  called  them 
like  vultures  to  the  prey.  Those  who  had  remained 
in  Denmark,  with  their  brothers  of  Norway,  fanatical 
pagans,  incensed  against  the  Christians,  made  a  descent 
on  all  the  surrounding  coasts.  Their  sea-kings,3  "  who 
had  never  slept  under  the  smoky  rafters  of  a  roof,  who 
had  never  drained  the  ale-horn  by  an  inhabited  hearth," 
laughed  at  wind  and  storms,  and  sang  :  "  The  blast  of 
the  tempest  aids  our  oars ;  the  bellowing  of  heaven, 
the  howling  of  the  thunder,  hurt  us  not ;  the  hurricane 
is  our  servant,  and  drives  us  whither  we  wish  to  go." 
"  We  hewed  with  our  swords,"  says  a  song  attributed 
to  Eagnar  Lodbrog ;  "  was  it  not  like  that  hour  when 
my  bright  bride  I  seated  by  me  on  the  couch  ?  "  One  of 

1  Bede,  v.  10.  Sidonius,  viii.  6.  Lingard,  Hist,  of  England,  1854, 
L  chap.  2. 

J  Zoziiuos,  iii.  147.     Amm.  Marcellinus,  xxviii.  526. 

3  Aug.  Thierry,  Hist.  S.  Edmundi,  vi.  441.  See  Ynglingasaga,  and 
especially  Egil's  Saga. 


CHAP,  t  THE  SAXONS.  43 

them,  at  the  monastery  of  Peterborough,  kills  with  his 
own  hand  all  the  monks,  to  the  number  of  eighty-four ; 
others,  having  taken  King  ^EUa,  divided  his  ribs  from 
che  spine,  drew  his  lungs  out,  and  threw  salt  into  his 
wounds.  Harold  Harefoot,  having  seized  his  rival 
Alfred,  with  six  hundred  men,  had  them  maimed, 
blinded,  hamstrung,  scalped,  or  embowelled.1  Torture 
and  carnage,  greed  of  danger,  fury  of  destruction,  obsti- 
nate and  frenzied  bravery  of  an  over-strong  tempera- 
ment, the  unchaining  of  the  butcherly  instincts, — such 
traits  meet  us  at  every  step  in  the  old  Sagas.  The 
daughter  of  the  Danish  Jarl,  seeing  Egil  taking  his 
seat  near  her,  repels  him  with  scorn,  reproaching  him 
with  "  seldom  having  provided  the  wolves  with  hot 
meat,  with  never  having  seen  for  the  whole  autumn  a 
raven  croaking  over  the  carnage."  But  Egil  seized  her 
and  pacified  her  by  singing :  "  I  have  marched  with 
my  bloody  sword,  and  the  raven  has  followed  me. 
Furiously  we  fought,  the  fire  passed  over  the  dwellings 
of  men ;  we  have  sent  to  sleep  in  blood  those  who  kept 
the  gates."  From  such  table-talk,  and  such  maidenly 
tastes,  we  may  judge  of  the  rest.2 

Behold  them  now  in  England,  more  settled  and 
wealthier :  do  you  expect  to  find  them  much  changed  ? 
Changed  it  may  be,  but  for  the  worse,  like  the  Franks, 

1  Liugard,  Hist,  of  England,  i.  164,  says,  however,   "Every  tenth 
man  out  of  the  six  hundred  received  his  liberty,  and  of  the  rest  a  few 
were  selected  for  slavery." — TR. 

2  Franks,  Frisians,  Saxons,  Danes,  Norwegians,  Icelanders,  are  one 
and  the  same  people.     Their  language,  laws,  religion,  poetry,  differ  but 
little.     The  more  northern  continue  longest  in  their  primitive  manners. 
Germany  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  centuries,  Denmark  and  Norway  in 
the  seventh  and  eighth,  Iceland  in  the  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries, 
present  the  same  condition,  and  the  muniments  of  each  country  will 
fill  up  the  gaps  that  exist  in  the  history  of  the  others. 


44  THE  SOURCE.  fcoot  L 

like  all  barbarians  who  pass  from  action  to  enjoyment 
They  are  more  gluttonous,  carving  their  hogs,  filling  them- 
selves with  flesh,  swallowing  down  deep  draughts  of 
mead,  ale,  spiced  wines,  all  the  strong,  coarse  drinks 
which  they  can  procure,  and  so  they  are  cheered  and 
stimulated.  Add  to  this  the  pleasure  of  the  fight.  Not 
easily  with  such  instincts  can  they  attain  to  culture ;  to 
find  a  natural  and  ready  culture,  we  must  look  amongst 
the  sober  and  sprightly  populations  of  the  south.  Here 
the  sluggish  and  heavy1  temperament  remains  long 
buried  in  a  brutal  life ;  people  of  the  Latin  race  never 
at  a  first  glance  see  in  them  aught  but  large  gross  beasts, 
clumsy  and  ridiculous  when  not  dangerous  and  enraged. 
Up  to  the  sixteenth  century,  says  an  old  historian,  the 
great  body  of  the  nation  were  little  else  than  herdsmen, 
keepers  of  cattle  and  sheep;  up  to  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  drunkenness  was  the  recreation  of  the  higher 
ranks ;  it  is  still  that  of  the  lower ;  and  all  the  refine- 
ment and  softening  influence  of  civilisation  have  not 
abolished  amongst  them  the  use  of  the  rod  and  the  fist. 
If  the  carnivorous,  warlike,  drinking  savage,  proof  against 
the  climate,  still  shows  beneath  the  conventions  of  our 
modern  society  and  the  softness  of  our  modern  polish, 
imagine  what  he  must  have  been  when,  landing  with 
his  band  upon  a  wasted  or  desert  country,  and  becoming 
for  the  first  time  a  settler,  he  saw  extending  to  the  horizon 
the  common  pastures  of  the  border  country,  and  the  great 
primitive  forests  which  furnished  stags  for  the  chase  and 
acorns  for  his  pigs.  The  ancient  histories  tell  us  that 
they  had  a  great  and  a  coarse  appetite.2  Even  at  the 
time  of  the  Conquest  the  custom  of  drinking  to  excess 

1  Taoitua,  Dt  mor.  Germ.  xxii.  :  Gens  nee  astuta  nee  callid*. 
•  W.  of  Malmesbury.     Heury  of  Huntingdon,  vi.  366. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  46 

was  a  common  vice  with  men  of  the  highest  rank,  and 
they  passed  in  this  way  whole  days  and  nights  without 
intermission.  Henry  of  Huntingdon,  in  the  twelfth 
century,  lamenting  the  ancient  hospitality,  says  that  the 
Norman  kings  provided  their  courtiers  with  only  one 
meal  a  day,  while  the  Saxon  kings  used  to  provide  four. 
One  day,  when  Athelstan  went  with  his  nobles  to  visit 
his  relative  Ethelfleda,  the  provision  of  mead  was  ex- 
hausted at  the  first  salutation,  owing  to  the  copiousness 
of  the  draughts ;  but  Dunstan,  forecasting  the  extent  of 
the  royal  appetite,  had  furnished  the  house,  so  that  the 
cup-bearers,  as  is  the  custom  at  royal  feasts,  were  able 
the  whole  day  to  serve  it  out  in  horns  and  other  vessels, 
and  the  liquor  was  not  found  to  be  deficient.  When 
the  guests  were  satisfied,  the  harp  passed  from  hand  to 
hand,  and  the  rude  harmony  of  their  deep  voices  swelled 
under  the  vaulted  roof.  The  monasteries  themselves  in 
Edgard's  time  kept  up  games,  songs,  and  dances  till  mid- 
night. To  shout,  to  drink,  to  gesticulate,  to  feel  their 
veins  heated  and  swollen  with  wine,  to  hear  and  see 
around  them  the  riotous  orgies,  this  was  the  first  need  of 
the  Barbarians.1  The  heavy  human  brute  gluts  himself 
with  sensations  and  with  noise. 

For  such  appetites  there  was  a  stronger  food, — I  mean 
blows  and  battle.  In  vain  they  attached  themselves  to 
the  soil,  became  tillers  of  the  ground,  in  distinct  com- 
munities and  distinct  regions,  shut  up2  in  their  march 

1  Tacitus,  De  moribus  Germanoriim,  xxii.  xxiii. 

3  Kemble,  Saxons  in  England,  1849,  i.  70,  ii.  184.  "The  Acts  of 
an  Anglo-Saxon  parliament  are  a  series  of  treaties  of  peace  between  all 
the  associations  which  make  up  the  State  ;  a  continual  revision  and 
renewal  of  the  alliances  offensive  and  defensive  of  all  the  free  men. 
They  are  universally  mutual  contracts  for  the  maintenance  of  the  frid 
or  peace." 


46  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

with  their  kindred  and  comrades,  bound  together,  sepa- 
rated from  the  mass,  enclosed  by  sacred  landmarks,  by 
primeval  oaks  on  which  they  cut  the  figures  of  birds  and 
beasts,  by  poles  set  up  in  the  midst  of  the  marsh,  which 
whosoever  removed  was  punished  with  cruel  tortures. 
In  vain  these  Marches  and  GaV  were  grouped  into  states, 
and  finally  formed  a  half-regulated  society,  with  assem- 
blies and  laws,  under  the  lead  of  a  single  king ;  its  very 
structure  indicates  the  necessities  to  supply  which  it 
was  created.  They  united  in  order  to  maintain  peace ; 
treaties  of  peace  occupy  their  Parliaments ;  provisions 
for  peace  are  the  matter  of  their  laws.  War  was  waged 
daily  and  everywhere ;  the  aim  of  life  was,  not  to  be  slain, 
ransomed,  mutilated,  pillaged,  hung  and  of  course,  if  it 
was  a  woman,  violated.2  Every  man  was  obliged  to  appear 
armed,  and  to  be  ready,  with  his  burgh  or  his  township, 
to  repel  marauders,  who  went  about  in  bands.3  The  animal 
was  yet  too  powerful,  too  impetuous,  too  untamed.  Anger 
and  covetousness  in  the  first  place  brought  him  upon 
his  prey.  Their  history,  I  mean  that  of  the  Heptarchy, 
is  like  a  history  of  "  kites  and  crows."4  They  slew  the 
Britons  or  reduced  them  to  slavery,  fought  the  remnant 
of  the  Welsh,  Irish,  and  Picts,  massacred  one  another, 
were  hewn  down  and  cut  to  pieces  by  the  Danes.  In 
a  hundred  years,  out  of  fourteen  kings  of  Northunibria, 

1  A  large  district ;  the  word  is  still  existing  in  German,  as  Rheingau, 
Breisgau. — TR. 

1  Turner,  Hist,  of  the  Anglo-Sax,  ii.  440,  Laws  of  Ina. 

*  Such  a  band  consisted  of  thirty-five  men  or  more. 

4  Milton's  expression.  Lingard's  History,  i.  chap.  3.  This  history 
bears  much  resemblance  to  that  of  the  Franks  in  Gaul.  See  Gregory 
of  Tours.  The  Saxons,  like  the  Franks,  somewhat  softened,  but 
rather  degenerated,  were  pillaged  and  massacred  by  those  of  their 
northern  brothers  who  still  remained  in  a  savage  state, 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  4fr 

seven  were  slain  and  six  deposed.  Penda  of  Mercia 
killed  five  kings,  and  in  order  to  take  the  town  of  Barn- 
borough,  demolished  all  the  neighbouring  villages,  heaped 
their  ruins  into  an  immense  pile,  sufficient  to  burn  all 
the  inhabitants,  undertook  to  exterminate  the  Northum- 
brians, and  perished  himself  by  the  sword  at  the  age  of 
eighty.  Many  amongst  them  were  put  to  death  by  the 
thanes ;  one  thane  was  burned  alive ;  brothers  slew  one 
another  treacherously.  With  us  civilisation  has  inter- 
posed, between  the  desire  and  its  fulfilment,  the  counter- 
acting and  softening  preventive  of  reflection  and  calcu- 
lation ;  here,  the  impulse  is  sudden,  and  murder  and 
every  kind  of  excess  spring  from  it  instantaneously. 
King  Edwy1  having  married  Elgiva,  his  relation  within 
the  prohibited  degrees,  quitted  the  hall  where  he  was 
drinking  on  the  very  day  of  his  coronation,  to  be  with 
her.  The  nobles  thought  themselves  insulted,  and 
immediately  Abbot  Dunstan  went  himself  to  seek  the 
young  man.  "  He  found  the  adulteress,"  says  the  monk 
Osbern,  "  her  mother,  and  the  king  together  on  the  bed 
of  debauch.  He  dragged  the  king  thence  violently,  and 
setting  the  crown  upon  his  head,  brought  him  back  to 
the  nobles."  Afterwards  Elgiva  sent  men  to  put  out 
Dunstan's  eyes,  and  then,  in  a  revolt,  saved  herself  and 
the  king  by  hiding  in  the  country ;  but  the  men  of  the 
North  having  seized  her,  "hamstrung  her,  and  then  sub- 
jected her  to  the  death  which  she  deserved." 2  Barbarity 
follows  barbarity.  At  Bristol,  at  the  time  of  the  Con- 
quest, as  we  are  told  by  an  historian  of  the  time,3  it  was 

1  Vita  S.  Dunstani,  Anglia  Sacra,  ii. 

2  It  is  amusing  to  compare  the  story  of  Edwy  and  Elgiva  in  Turner, 
ii.  216,  etc. ,  and  then  in  Lingard,  i.  132,  etc.     The  first  accuses  Dunstan, 
the  other  defends  him. — TR. 

*  Life  of  Bishop  Wvlslan. 


48  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

the  custom  to  buy  men  and  women  in  all  parts  of  Eng- 
land, and  to  carry  them  to  Ireland  for  sale  in  order  to 
make  money.  The  buyers  usually  made  the  young 
women  pregnant,  and  took  them  to  market  in  that  con- 
dition, in  order  to  ensure  a  better  price.  "You  might 
have  seen  with  sorrow  long  files  of  young  people  of  both 
sexes  and  of  the  greatest  beauty,  bound  with  ropes,  and 
daily  exposed  for  sale.  .  .  .  They  sold  in  this  manner 
as  slaves  their  nearest  relatives,  and  even  their  own 
children."  And  the  chronicler  adds  that,  having 
abandoned  this  practice,  they  "  thus  set  an  example  to 
all  the  rest  of  England."  Would  you  know  the  manners 
of  the  highest  ranks,  in  the  family  of  the  last  king?1 
At  a  feast  in  the  king's  hall,  Harold  was  serving  Edward 
the  Confessor  with  wine,  when  Tostig,  his  brother, 
moved  by  envy,  seized  him  by  the  hair.  They  were 
separated.  Tostig  went  to  Hereford,  where  Harold 
had  ordered  a  royal  banquet  to  be  prepared.  There 
he  seized  his  brother's  attendants,  and  cutting  off  their 
heads  and  limbs,  he  placed  them  in  the  vessels  of 
wine,  ale,  mead,  and  cider,  and  sent  a  message  to  the 
king:  "If  you  go  to  your  farm,  you  will  find  there 
plenty  of  salt  meat,  but  you  will  do  well  to  carry  some 
more  with  you."  Harold's  other  brother,  Sweyn,  had 
violated  the  abbess  Elgiva,  assassinated  Beorn  the  thane, 
and  being  banished  from  the  country,  had  turned  pirate. 
When  we  regard  their  deeds  of  violence,  their  ferocity, 
their  cannibal  jests,  we  see  that  they  were  not  far  removed 
from  the  sea-kings,  or  from  the  followers  of  Odin,  who 

1  Tantae  ssevitiae  erant  fratres  illi  quod,  cum  alicujus  nitidam  rillam 
conspicerent,  dominatorem  de  nocte  interfici  juberent,  totamque  pro- 
geniem  illius  possessiouemque  defunct!  obtiuereut  Turner,  iii.  27. 
Henry  of  Huntingdon,  vi.  367 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  49 

ate  raw  flesh,  hung  men  as  victims  on  the  sacred  trees  of 
Upsala,  and  killed  themselves  to  make  sure  of  dying  as 
they  had  lived,  in  blood.  A  score  of  times  the  old 
ferocious  instinct  reappears  beneath  the  thin  crust  of 
Christianity.  In  the  eleventh  century,  Siward,1  the 
great  Earl  of  Northumberland,  was  afflicted  with  a 
dysentery ;  and  feeling  his  death  near,  exclaimed,  "What 
a  shame  for  me  not  to  have  been  permitted  to  die  in  so 
many  battles,  and  to  end  thus  by  a  cow's  death !  At 
least  put  on  my  breastplate,  gird  on  my  sword,  set  my 
helmet  on  my  head,  my  shield  in  my  left  hand,  my 
battle-axe  in  my  right,  so  that  a  stout  warrior,  like 
myself,  may  die  as  a  warrior."  They  did  as  he  bade, 
and  thus  died  he  honourably  in  his  armour.  They  had 
made  one  step,  and  only  one,  from  barbarism. 

III. 

Under  this  native  barbarism  there  were  noble  disposi- 
tions, unknown  to  the  Roman  world,  which  were  destined 
to  produce  a  better  people  out  of  its  ruins.  In  the 
first  place,  "a  certain  earnestness,  which  leads  them  out 
of  frivolous  sentiments  to  noble  ones."2  From  their 
origin  in  Germany  this  is  what  we  find  them,  severe  in 
manners,  with  grave  inclinations  and  a  manly  dignity. 
They  live  solitary,  each  one  near  the  spring  or  the  wood 
which  has  taken  his  fancy.3  Even  in  villages  the  cot- 
tages were  detached  ;  they  must  have  independence  and 
free  air.  They  had  no  taste  for  voluptuousness ;  love  was 
tardy,  education  severe,  their  food  simple;  all  the  re- 

1  "  Pene  gigas  statura,"  says  the  chronicler.  H.  of  Huntingdon,  vi 
367.  Kemble,  i.  393.  Turner,  ii.  318. 

3  Grimm,  Mythology,  53,  Preface. 

8  Tacitus,  xx.  xxiii.  xi.  xii.  xiii.  et  passim.  We  may  still  see  the 
traces  of  this  taste  in  English  dwellings. 

VOL.  I.  E 


50  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

creation  they  indulged  in  was  the  hunting  of  the  aurochs, 
and  a  dance  amongst  naked  swords.  Violent  intoxica- 
tion and  perilous  wagers  were  their  weakest  points; 
they  sought  in  preference  not  mild  pleasures,  but  strong 
excitement.  In  everything,  even  in  their  rude  and  mas- 
culine instincts,  they  were  men.  Each  in  his  own  home, 
on  his  land  and  in  his  hut,  was  his  own  master, 
upright  and  free,  in  no  wise  restrained  or  shackled. 
If  the  commonweal  received  anything  from  him,  it  was 
because  he  gave  it.  He  gave  his  vote  in  arms  in  all 
great  conferences,  passed  judgment  in  the  assembly, 
made  alliances  and  wars  on  his  own  account,  moved 
from  place  to  place,  showed  activity  and  daring.1  The 
modern  Englishman  existed  entire  in  this  Saxon.  If  he 
bends,  it  is  because  he  is  quite  willing  to  bend ;  he  is  no 
less  capable  of  self-denial  than  of  independence;  self-sacri- 
fice is  not  uncommon,  a  man  cares  not  for  his  blood  t»r 
his  life.  In  Homer  the  warrior  often  gives  way,  and  is 
not  blamed  if  he  flees.  In  the  Sagas,  in  the  Edda,  he 
must  be  over-brave ;  in  Germany  the  coward  is  drowned 
in  the  mud,  under  a  hurdle.  Through  all  outbreaks 
of  primitive  brutality  gleams  obscurely  the  grand  idea 
of  duty,  which  is,  the  self-constraint  exercised  in  view 
of  some  noble  end.  Marriage  was  pure  amongst  them, 
chastity  instinctive.  Amongst  the  Saxons  the  adulterer 
was  punished  by  death ;  the  adulteress  was  obliged  to 
hang  herself,  or  was  stabbed  by  the  knives  of  her  com- 
panions. The  wives  of  the  Cimbrians,  when  they  could 
not  obtain  from  Marius  assurance  of  their  chastity,  slew 
themselves  with  their  own  hands.  They  thought  there 
was  something  sacred  in  a  woman ;  they  married  but 
one,  and  kept  faith  with  her.  In  fifteen  centuries  the  idea 
1  Tacitus,  *iii. 


CHAP.  I.  THE  SAXONS.  51 

of  marriage  is  unchanged  amongst  them.  The  wife,  on 
entering  her  husband's  home,  is  aware  that  she  gives 
herself  altogether,1  "  that  she  will  have  but  one  body,  one 
life  with  him ;  that  she  will  have  no  thought,  no  desire 
beyond  :  that  she  will  be  the  companion  of  his  perils  and 
labours  ;  that  she  will  suffer  and  dare  as  much  as  he,  both 
in  peace  and  war."  And  he,  like  her,  knows  that  he  gives 
himself.  Having  chosen  his  chief,  he  forgets  himself  in 
him,  assigns  to  him  his  own  glory,  serves  him  to  the  death. 
"He  is  infamous  as  long  as  he  lives,  who  returns  from 
the  field  of  battle  without  his  chief." 2  It  was  on  this 
voluntary  subordination  that  feudal  society  was  based. 
Man  in  this  race,  can  accept  a  superior,  can  be  capable 
of  devotion  and  respect.  Thrown  back  upon  himself 
by  the  gloom  and  severity  of  his  climate,  he  has  dis- 
covered moral  beauty,  while  others  discover  sensuous 
beauty.  This  kind  of  naked  brute,  who  lies  all  day  by 
his  fireside,  sluggish  and  dirty,  always  eating  and  drink- 
ing,3 whose  rusty  faculties  cannot  follow  the  clear  and 
fine  outlines  of  happily  created  poetic  forms,  catches  a 
glimpse  of  the  sublime  in  his  troubled  dreams.  He  does 
not  see  it,  but  simply  feels  it ;  his  religion  is  already 
within,  as  it  will  be  in  the  sixteenth  century,  \vhen  he 
will  cast  off  the  sensuous  worship  imported  from  Rome, 
and  hallow  the  faith  of  the  heart.4  His  gods  are  not 
enclosed  in  walls ;  he  has  no  idols.  What  he  designates 
by  divine  names,  is  something  invisible  and  grand, 
which  floats  through  nature,  and  is  conceived  beyond 


1  Tacitus,  xix.  viii.  xvi.     Kerable,  i.  232. 

2  Tacitus,  xiv. 

3  "  In  omni  domo,  nudi  et  sordidi.  .  .  .  Plus  per  otium  transigunt, 
dediti  somno,  ciboque  ;  totos  dies  juxta  focuni  atque  ignem  agunt." 

*  Grimm,  53,  Preface.     Tacitus,  x. 


62  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

nature,1  a  mysterious  infinity  which  the  sense  cannot 
touch,  but  which  "  reverence  alone  can  feel ;"  and  when, 
later  on,  the  legends  define  and  alter  this  vague  divina- 
tion of  natural  powers,  one  idea  remains  at  the  bottom 
of  this  chaos  of  giant-dreams,  namely,  that  the  world  is 
a  warfare,  and  heroism  the  highest  good. 

In  the  beginning,  say  the  old  Icelandic  legends,2  there 
were  two  worlds,  Niflheini  the  frozen,  and  Muspell  the 
burning.  From  the  falling  snow-flakes  was  born  the 
giant  Ymir.  "  There  was  in  times  of  old,  where  Ymir 
dwelt,  nor  sand  nor  sea,  nor  gelid  waves ;  earth  existed 
not,  nor  heaven  above ;  'twas  a  chaotic  chasm,  and  grass 
nowhere."  There  was  but  Ymir,  the  horrible  frozen 
Ocean,  with  his  children,  sprung  from  his  feet  and  his 
armpits;  then  their  shapeless  progeny,  Terrors  of  the 
abyss,  ban-en  Mountains,  Whirlwinds  of  the  North,  and 
other  malevolent  beings,  enemies  of  the  sun  and  of  life ; 
then  the  cow  Andhumbla,  born  also  of  melting  snow, 
brings  to  light,  whilst  licking  the  hoar-frost  from  the 
rocks,  a  man  Bur,  whose  grandsons  kill  the  giant  Ymir. 
"From  his  flesh  the  earth  was  formed,  and  from  his 
bones  the  hills,  the  heaven  from  the  skull  of  that  ice- 
cold  giant,  and  from  his  blood  the  sea;  but  of  his 
brains  the  heavy  clouds  are  all  created."  Then  arose 
war  between  the  monsters  of  winter  and  the  luminous 
fertile  gods,  Odin  the  founder,  Baldur  the  mild  and 

"  Deorum  norainibus  appellant  secretum  illud,  quod  sola  reverentia 
vident "  Later  on,  at  Upsala  for  instance,  they  had  images  (Adam  of 
Bremen,  Historia  Ecclesiastica).  Wuotan  (Odin)  signifies  etymologi- 
cally  the  All-Powerful,  him  who  penetrates  and  circulates  through 
everything  (Grimm,  Mythol.) 

*  SanmuncUir  Edda,  Snorra  Edda,  ed.  Copenhagen,  three  vols.  passim. 
Mr.  Bergmann  has  translated  several  of  these  poems  into  French, 
which  Mr.  Taine  quotes.  The  translator  has  generally  made  use  of 
the  edition  of  Jlr.  Thorpe,  London,  1866. 


CUAI>.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  53 

benevolent,  Thor  the  summer-thunder,  who  purifies  the 
air,  and  nourishes  the  earth  with  showers.  Long 
fought  the  gods  against  the  frozen  Jotuns,  against  the 
dark  bestial  powers,  the  Wolf  Fenrir,  the  great  Serpent, 
whom  they  drown  in  the  sea,  the  treacherous  Loki, 
whom  they  bind  to  the  rocks,  beneath  a  viper  whose 
venom  drops  continually  on  his  face.  Long  will  the 
heroes,  who  by  a  bloody  death  deserve  to  be  placed 
"  in  the  halls  of  Odin,  and  there  wage  a  combat  every 
day,"  assist  the  gods  in  their  mighty  war.  A  day  will, 
however,  arrive  when  gods  and  men  will  be  conquered. 
Then 

"trembles  Yggdrasil's  ash  yet  standing;  groans  that  ancient 
tree,  and  the  Jotun  Loki  is  loosed.  The  shadows  groan  on  the 
ways  of  Hel,1  until  the  fire  of  Sort  has  consumed  the  tree. 
Hrym  steers  from  the  east,  the  waters  rise,  the  mundane  snake 
is  coiled  in  jotun-rage.  The  worm  beats  the  water,  and  the  eagle 
screams ;  the  pale  of  beak  tears  carcases ;  (the  ship)  Naglfar  is 
loosed.  Surt  from  the  South  comes  with  flickering  flame  ; 
shines  from  his  sword  the  Val-god's  sun.  The  stony  hills  are 
dashed  together,  the  giantesses  totter ;  men  tread  the  path  of 
Hel,  and  heaven  is  cloven.  The  sun  darkens,  earth  in  ocean 
sinks,  fall  from  heaven  the  bright  stars,  fire's  breath  assails  the 
all-nourishing  tree,  towering  fire  plays  against  heaven  itself."  2 

The  gods  perish,  devoured  one  by  one  by  the  monsters ; 
and  the  celestial  legend,  sad  and  grand  now  like  the 
life  of  man,  bears  witness  to  the  hearts  of  warriors  and 
heroes. 

There  is  no  fear  of  pain,  no  care  for  life ;  they  count 
it  as  dross  when  the  idea  has  seized  upon  them.     The 

1  Hel,  the  goddess  of  death,  born  of  Loki  and  Angrboda. — TR. 

2  Thorpe,  The  Edda  of  Scemund,  The  Vala's  Prophecy,  str.  48-'56, 
p.  9  et  passim. 


54  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

trembling  of  the  nerves,  the  repugnance  of  animal 
instinct  which  starts  back  before  wounds  and  death, 
are  all  lost  in  an  irresistible  determination.  See  how 
in  their  epic1  the  sublime  springs  up  amid  the  horrible, 
like  a  bright  purple  flower  amid  a  pool  of  blood.  Sigurd 
has  plunged  his  sword  into  the  dragon  Fafuir,  and  at 
that  very  moment  they  looked  on  one  another;  and 
Fafuir  asks,  as  he  dies,  "  Who  art  thou  ?  and  who  is 
thy  father  ?  and  what  thy  kin,  that  thou  wert  so  hardy 
as  to  bear  weapons  against  me ? "  "A  hardy  heart 
urged  me  on  thereto,  and  a  strong  hand  and  this  sharp 
sword.  .  .  .  Seldom  hath  hardy  eld  a  faint-heart  youth." 
After  this  triumphant  eagle's  cry  Sigurd  cuts  out  the 
worm's  heart;  but  Begin,  brother  of  Fafnir,  drinks 
blood  from  the  wound,  and  falls  asleep.  Sigurd,  who 
was  roasting  the  heart,  raises  his  finger  thoughtlessly 
to  his  lips.  Forthwith  he  understands  the  language  of 
the  birds.  The  eagles  scream  above  him  in  the 
branches.  They  warn  him  to  mistrust  Eegin.  Sigurd 
cuts  off  the  latter's  head,  eats  of  Fafnir's  heart,  drinks 
his  blood  and  his  brother's.  Amongst  all  these  murders 
their  courage  and  poetry  grow.  Sigurd  has  subdued 
Brynhild,  the  untamed  maiden,  by  passing  through  the 
flaming  fire ;  they  share  one  couch  for  three  nights,  his 
naked  sword  betwixt  them.  "  Nor  the  damsel  did  he 
kiss,  nor  did  the  Hunnish  king  to  his  arm  lift  her. 
He  the  blooming  maid  to  Giuki's  son  delivered," 
because,  according  to  his  oath,  he  must  send  her  to 
her  betrothed  Gunnar.  She,  setting  her  love  upon 

1  Fafnismdl  Edda.  This  epic  is  common  to  the  Northern  races,  as 
is  the  Iliad  to  the  Greek  populations,  and  is  found  almost  entire  in 
Germany  in  the  Nibelungen  Lied.  The  translator  has  also  used  Magnus- 
son  and  Morris'  poetical  version  of  the  Volsunga  Saga,  and  certain 
songs  of  the  Elder  Edda,  London,  1870. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  55 

him,  "Alone  she  sat  without,  at  eve  of  day,  began 
aloud  with  herself  to  speak :  '  Sigurd  must  be  mine ; 
I  must  die,  or  that  blooming  youth  clasp  in  my  arms.' " 
But  seeing  him  married,  she  brings  about  his  death. 
"  Laughed  then  Brynhild,  Budli's  daughter,  once  only, 
from  her  whole  soul,  when  in  her  bed  she  listened  to 
the  loud  lament  of  Giuki's  daughter."  She  put  on  her 
golden  corslet,  pierced  herself  with  the  sword's  point, 
and  as  a  last  request  said : 

"  Let  in  the  plain  be  raised  a  pile  so  spacious,  that  for  us  all 
like  room  may  be  ;  let  them  burn  the  Hun  (Sigurd)  on  the  one 
side  of  me,  on  the  other  side  my  household  slaves,  with  collars 
splendid,  two  at  our  heads,  and  two  hawks  ;  let  also  lie  between 
us  both  the  keen-edged  sword,  as  when  we  both  one  couch 
ascended  ;  also  five  female  thralls,  eight  male  slaves  of  gentle 
birth  fostered  with  me.  " l 

All  were  burnt  together;  yet  Gudrun  the  widow  con- 
tinued motionless  by  the  corpse,  and  could  not  weep. 
The  wives  of  the  jarls  came  to  console  her,  and  each 
of  them  told  her  own  sorrows,  all  the  calamities  of 
great  devastations  and  the  old  life  of  barbarism. 

"  Then  spoke  Giaflang,  Giuki's  sister  :  '  Lo,  up  on  earth  I  live 
most  loveless,  who  of  five  mates  must  see  the  ending,  of  daugh- 
ters twain  and  three  sisters,  of  brethren  eight,  and  abide  behind 
lonely. '  Then  spake  Herborg,  Queen  of  Hunland  :  '  Crueller 
tale  have  I  to  tell  of  my  seven  sons,  down  in  the  Southlands, 
and  the  eight  man,  my  mate,  felled  in  the  death-mead.  Father 
and  mother,  and  four  brothers  on  the  wide  sea  the  winds  and 
death  played  with ;  the  billows  beat  on  the  bulwark  boards. 
Alone  must  I  sing  o'er  them,  alone  must  I  array  them,  alone 
must  ray  hands  deal  with  their  departing  ;  and  all  this  was  in 

1  Thorpe,  The  Edda  of  Scemund,  Third  lay  of  Sigwrd  Fafnicide, 
sir.  62-64,  p.  88. 


56  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

one  season's  wearing,  and  none  was  left  for  love  or  solace.  Then 
was  I  bound  a  prey  of  the  battle  when  that  same  season  wore 
to  its  ending ;  as  a  tiring  may  must  I  bind  the  shoon  of  the 
duke's  high  dame,  every  day  at  dawning.  From  her  jealous 
hate  gat  I  heavy  mocking,  cruel  lashes  she  laid  upon  me.'  " l 

All  was  in  vain ;  no  word  could  draw  tears  from  those 
dry  eyes.  They  were  obliged  to  lay  the  bloody  corpse 
before  her,  ere  her  tears  would  come.  Then  tears  flowed 
through  the  pillow ;  as  "  the  geese  withal  that  were  in 
the  home-field,  the  fair  fowls  the  may  owned,  fell  a- 
screaming."  She  would  have  died,  like  Sigrun,  on  the 
corpse  of  him  whom  alone  she  had  loved,  if  they  had 
not  deprived  her  of  memory  by  a  magic  potion.  Thus 
affected,  she  departs  in  order  to  marry  Atli,  king  of  the 
Huns ;  and  yet  she  goes  against  her  will,  with  gloomy 
forebodings :  for  murder  begets  murder ;  and  her 
brothers,  the  murderers  of  Sigurd,  having  been  drawn 
to  Atli's  court,  fall  in  their  turn  into  a  snare  like  that 
which  they  had  themselves  laid.  Then  Gunnar  was 
bound,  and  they  tried  to  make  him  deliver  up  the 
treasure.  He  answers  with  a  barbarian's  laugh  : 

" '  Hogni's  heart  in  my  hand  shall  lie,  cut  bloody  from  the 
breast  of  the  valiant  chief,  the  king's  son,  with  a  dull-edged 
knife.'  They  the  heart  cut  out  from  Hialli's  breast ;  on  a  dish, 
bleeding,  laid  it,  and  it  to  Gunnar  bare.  Then  said  Gunnar, 
lord  of  men  :  '  Here  have  I  the  heart  of  the  timid  Hialli,  unlike 
the  heart  of  the  bold  Hogni ;  for  much  it  trembles  as  in  the  dish 
it  lies  ;  it  trembled  more  by  half  while  in  his  breast  it  lay." 
Hogni  laughed  when  to  his  heart  they  cut  the  living  crest- 
crasher  ;  no  lament  uttered  he.  All  bleeding  on  a  dish  they 
laid  it,  and  it  to  Gunnar  bare.  Calmly  said  Gunnar,  the  warrior 

1  Magnusson  and  Morris,  Story  of  the  Volsimga  and  Nibelungs, 
Lamentation  of  Gudrun,  p.  118  et  passim. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  57 

Niflung  :  '  Here  have  I  the  heart  of  the  bold  Hogni,  uulike  the 
heart  of  the  timid  Hialli ;  for  it  little  trembles  as  in  the  dish  it 
lies  :  it  trembled  less  while  in  his  breast  it  lay.  So  far  shalt 
thon,  Atli !  be  from  the  eyes  of  men  as  thou  wilt  from  the 
treasures  be.  In  my  power  alone  is  all  the  hidden  Niflung's 
gold,  now  that  Hogni  lives  not.  Ever  was  I  wavering  while  we 
both  lived  ;  now  am  I  so  no  longer,  as  I  alone  survive.' "  * 

It  was  the  last  insult  of  the  self-confident  man,  who 
values  neither  his  own  life  nor  that  of  another,  so  that 
he  can  satiate  his  vengeance.  They  cast  him  into  the 
serpent's  den,  and  there  he  died,  striking  his  harp  with 
his  foot.  But  the  inextinguishable  flame  of  vengeance 
passed  from  his  heart  to  that  of  his  sister.  Corpse  after 
corpse  fall  on  each  other ;  a  mighty  fury  hurls  them 
open-eyed  to  death.  She  killed  the  children  she  had 
by  Atli,  and  one  day  on  his  return  from  the  carnage, 
gave  him  their  hearts  to  eat,  served  in  honey,  and 
laughed  coldly  as  she  told  him  on  what  he  had  fed. 
"  Uproar  was  on  the  benches,  portentous  the  cry  of  men, 
noise  beneath  the  costly  hangings.  The  children  of 
the  Huns  wept ;  all  wept  save  Gudrun,  who  never 
wept  or  for  her  bear-fierce  brothers,  or  for  her  dear  sons, 
young,  simple."2  Judge  from  this  heap  of  ruin  and 
carnage  to  what  excess  the  will  is  strung.  There  were 
men  amongst  them,  Berserkirs,3  who  in  battle  seized 
with  a  sort  of  madness,  showed  a  sudden  and  super- 
human strength,  and  ceased  to  feel  their  wounds.  This 
is  the  conception  of  a  hero  as  engendered  by  this  race 
in  its  infancy.  Is  it  not  strange  to  see  them  place 

1  Thorpe,  The  Edda  of  Scemund,  Lay  of  Atli,  sir.  21-27,  p.  117. 

2  Ibid.  str.  38,  p.  119. 

8  This  word  signifies  men  who  fought  without  a  breastplate,  perhaps 
in  shirts  only  ;  Scottice,  "Baresarks." — TR. 


58  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

their  happiness  in  battle,  their  beauty  in  death  ?  Is 
there  any  people,  Hindoo,  Persian,  Greek,  or  Gallic, 
which  has  formed  so  tragic  a  conception  of  life  ?  Is 
there  any  which  has  peopled  its  infantine  mind  with 
such  gloomy  dreams?  Is  there  any  which  has  so 
entirely  banished  from  its  dreams  the  sweetness  of  en- 
joyment, and  the  softness  of  pleasure?  Endeavours, 
tenacious  and  mournful  endeavours,  an  ecstasy  of 
endeavours — such  was  their  chosen  condition.  Carlyle 
said  well,  that  in  the  sombre  obstinacy  of  an  English 
labourer  still  survives  the  tacit  rage  of  the  Scandinavian 
warrior.  Strife  for  strife's  sake — such  is  their  pleasure. 
With  what  sadness,  madness,  destruction,  such  a  dispo- 
sition breaks  its  bonds,  we  shall  see  in  Shakspeare  and 
Byron;  with  what  vigour  and  purpose  it  can  limit 
and  employ  itself  when  possessed  by  moral  ideas,  we 
shall  see  in  the  case  of  the  Puritans. 

IV. 

They  have  established  themselves  in  England ;  and 
however  disordered  the  society  which  binds  them  to- 
gether, it  is  founded,  as  in  Germany,  on  generous 
sentiment.  War  is  at  every  door,  I  am  aware,  but 
warlike  virtues  are  within  every  house ;  courage  chiefly, 
then  fidelity.  Under  the  brute  there  is  a  free  man, 
and  a  man  of  spirit.  There  is  no  man  amongst  them 
who,  at  his  own  risk,1  will  not  make  alliance,  go  forth 
to  fight,  undertake  adventures.  There  is  no  group  of 
free  men  amongst  them,  who,  in  their  Witenagemote,  is 
not  for  ever  concluding  alliances  one  with  another. 
Every  clan,  in  its  own  district,  forms  a  league  of  which 

1  See  the  Life  of  Sweyn,  of  Hereward,  etc.,  even  up  to  the  time  of 
the  Conquest. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  59 

ail  the  members,  "brothers  of  the  sword,"  defend  each 
other,  and  demand  revenge  for  the  spilling  of  blood,  at 
the  price  of  their  own.  Every  chief  in  his  hall  reckons 
that  he  has  friends,  not  mercenaries,  in  the  faithful  ones 
who  drink  his  beer,  and  who,  having  received  as  marks 
of  his  esteem  and  confidence,  bracelets,  swords,  and  suits 
of  armour,  will  cast  themselves  between  him  and  danger 
on  the  day  of  battle.1  Independence  and  boldness  rage 
amongst  this  young  nation  with  violence  and  excess; 
but  these  are  of  themselves  noble  things ;  and  no  less 
noble  are  the  sentiments  which  serve  them  for  disci- 
pline,— to  wit,  an  affectionate  devotion,  and  respect  for 
plighted  faith.  These  appear  in  their  laws,  and  break 
forth  in  their  poetry.  Amongst  them  greatness  of  heart 
gives  matter  for  imagination.  Their  characters  are  not 
selfish  and  shifty,  like  those  of  Homer.  They  are  brave 
hearts,  simple  and  strong,  faithful  to  their  relatives,  to 
their  master  in  arms,  firm  and  steadfast  to  enemies  and 
friends,  abounding  in  courage,  and  ready  for  sacrifice. 
"  Old  as  I  am,"  says  one,  "  I  will  not  budge  hence.  I 
mean  to  die  by  my  lord's  side,  near  this  man  I  have  loved 
so  much.  He  kept  his  word,  the  word  he  had  given  to 
his  chief,  to  the  distributor  of  gifts,  promising  him  that 
they  should  return  to  the  town,  safe  and  sound  to  their 
homes,  or  that  they  would  fall  both  together,  in  the  thick 
of  the  carnage,  covered  with  wounds.  He  lies  by  his 
master's  side,  like  a  faithful  servant."  Though  awkward 
in  speech,  their  old  poets  find  touching  words  when  they 
have  to  paint  these  manly  friendships.  We  cannot 
without  emotion  hear  them  relate  how  the  old  "  king 
embraced  the  best  of  his  thanes,  and  put  his  arms  about 
his  neck,  how  the  tears  flowed  down  the  cheeks  of  the 

1  Beowulf,  passim,  Death  of  Byrlitnoth. 


60  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

greyhaired  chief.  .  .  .  The  valiant  man  was  so  dear  to 
him.  He  could  not  stop  the  flood  which  mounted  from 
his  breast.  In  his  heart,  deep  in  the  chords  of  his  soul, 
he  sighed  in  secret  after  the  beloved  man."  Few  as  are 
the  songs  which  remain  to  us,  they  return  to  this  subject 
again  and  again.  The  wanderer  in  a  reverie  dreams 
about  his  lord  r1  It  seems  to  him  in  his  spirit  as  if  he 
kisses  and  embraces  him,  and  lays  head  and  hands  upon 
his  knees,  as  oft  before  in  the  olden  time,  when  he 
rejoiced  in  his  gifts.  Then  he  wakes — a  man  without 
friends.  He  sees  before  him  the  desert  tracks,  the 
seabirds  dipping  in  the  waves,  stretching  wide  their 
wings,  the  frost  and  the  snow,  mingled  with  falling 
hail.  Then  his  heart's  wounds  press  more  heavily. 
The  exile  says : — 

"In  blithe  habits  full  oft  we,  too,  agreed  that  nought  else 
should  divide  us  except  death  alone ;  at  length  this  is  changed, 
and  as  if  it  had  never  been  is  now  our  friendship.  To  endure 
enmities  man  orders  me  to  dwell  in  the  bowers  of  the  forest, 
under  the  oak  tree  in  this  earthy  cave.  Cold  is  this  earth- 
dwelling  :  I  am  quite  wearied  out.  Dim  are  the  dells,  high  up 
are  the  mountains,  a  bitter  city  of  twigs,  with  briars  overgrown, 
a  joyless  abode.  .  .  .  My  friends  are  in  the  earth  ;  those  loved 
in  life,  the  tomb  holds  them.  The  grave  is  guarding,  while  I 
above  alone  am  going.  Under  the  oak-tree,  beyond  this  earth- 
cave,  there  I  must  sit  the  long  summer-day." 

Amid  their  perilous  mode  of  life,  and  the  perpetual 
appeal  to  arms,  there  exists  no  sentiment  more  warm 
than  friendship,  nor  any  virtue  stronger  than  loyalty. 

Thus  supported  by  powerful  affection  and   trysted 
word,  society  is  kept  wholesome.     Marriage  is  like  the 

1  The  JVandtrcr,  the  Exile's  Song,  Codex  Ex&niensis,  published  by 
Thorpe. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  61 

state.  We  find  women  associating  with  the  men,  at 
their  feasts,  sober  and  respected.1  She  speaks,  and  they 
listen  to  her ;  no  need  for  concealing  or  enslaving  her,  in 
order  to  restrain  or  retain  her.  She  is  a  person,  and  not 
a  thing.  The  law  demands  her  consent  to  marriage,  sur- 
rounds her  with  guarantees,  accords  her  protection.  She 
can  inherit,  possess,  bequeath,  appear  in  courts  of  justice, 
in  county  assemblies,  in  the  great  congress  of  the 
elders.  Frequently  the  name  of  the  queen  and  of  several 
other  ladies  is  inscribed  in  the  proceedings  of  the 
Witenagemote.  Law  and  tradition  maintain  her  in- 
tegrity, as  if  she  were  a  man,  and  side  by  side  with 
men.  Her  affections  captivate  her,  as  if  she  were  a 
man,  and  side  by  side  with  men.  In  Alfred2  there  is  a 
portrait  of  the  wife,  which  for  purity  and  elevation 
equals  all  that  we  can  devise  with  our  modern  re- 
finements. "  Thy  wife  now  lives  for  thee — for  thee 
alone.  She  has  enough  of  all  kind  of  wealth  for  this 
present  life,  but  she  scorns  them  all  for  thy  sake  alone. 
She  has  forsaken  them  all,  because  she  had  not  thee  with 
them.  Thy  absence  makes  her  think  that  all  she  pos- 
sesses is  nought.  Thus,  for  love  of  thee,  she  is  wasted 
away,  and  lies  near  death  for  tears  and  grief."  Already, 
in  the  legends  of  the  Edda,  we  have  seen  the  maiden 
Sigrun  at  the  tomb  of  Helgi,  "  as  glad  as  the  voracious 
hawks  of  Odin,  when  they  of  slaughter  know,  of  warm 
prey,"  desiring  to  sleep  still  in  the  arms  of  death,  and 
die  at  last  on  his  grave.  Nothing  here  like  the  love  we 
find  in  the  primitive  poetry  of  France,  Provence,  Spain, 
and  Greece.  There  is  an  absence  of  gaiety,  of  delight ; 

1  Turner,  Hist.  Angl.  Sax.  iii.  63. 

2  Alfred  borrows  his  portrait  from  Boethius,  but  almost  entirely  re- 
writes it. 


62  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

outside  of  marriage  it  is  only  a  ferocious  appetite,  an 
outbreak  of  the  instinct  of  the  beast.  It  appears  nowhere 
with  its  charm  and  its  smile ;  there  is  no  love  song  in 
this  ancient  poetry.  The  reason  is,  that  with  them  love 
is  not  an  amusement  and  a  pleasure,  but  a  promise  and 
a  devotion.  All  is  grave,  even  sombre,  in  civil  relations 
as  well  as  in  conjugal  society.  As  in  Germany,  amid 
the  sadness  of  a  melancholic  temperament  and  the 
savagery  of  a  barbarous  life,  the  most  tragic  human 
faculties,  the  deep  power  of  love  and  the  grand  power  of 
will,  are  the  only  ones  that  sway  and  act. 

This  is  why  the  hero,  as  in  Germany,  is  truly  heroic. 
Let  us  speak  of  him  at  length ;  we  possess  one  of  their 
poems,  that  of  Beowulf,  almost  entire.  Here  are  the 
stories,  which  the  Thanes,  seated  on  their  stools,  by  the 
light  of  their  torches,  listened  to  as  they  drank  the  ale  of 
their  king:  we  can  glean  thence  their  manners  and 
sentiments,  as  in  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  those  of  the 
Greeks.  Beowulf  is  a  hero,  a  knight-errant  before  the 
days  of  chivalry,  as  the  leaders  of  the  German  bands 
were  feudal  chiefs  before  the  institution  of  feudalism.1 
He  has  "  rowed  upon  the  sea,  his  naked  sword  hard  in 
his  hand,  amidst  the  fierce  waves  and  coldest  of  storms, 
and  the  rage  of  winter  hurtled  over  the  waves  of  the 
deep."  The  sea-monsters,  "the  many  coloured  foes,  drew 
him  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  held  him  fast  in  their 
gripe."  But  he  reached  "the  wretches  with  his  point  and 
with  Ms  war-bill."  "The  mighty  sea-beast  received  the 
war-rush  through  his  hands,"  and  he  slew  nine  Nicors 

1  Kemble  thinks  that  the  origin  of  this  poem  is  very  ancient,  perhaps 
contemporary  with  the  invasion  of  the  Angles  and  Saxons,  but  that  the 
version  we  possess  is  later  than  the  seventh  century. — Kemble's  Beo- 
wulf, text  and  translation,  1833.  The  characters  are  Danish. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  63 

(sea-monsters).  And  now  behold  him,  as  he  comes  across 
the  waves  to  succour  the  old  King  Hrothgar,  who  with 
his  vassals  sits  afflicted  in  his  great  mead-hall,  high  and 
curved  with  pinnacles.  For  "  a  grim  stranger,  Grendel, 
a  mighty  haunter  of  the  marshes,"  had  entered  his  hall 
during  the  night,  seized  thirty  of  the  thanes  who  were 
asleep,  and  returned  in  his  war-craft  with  their  car- 
casses ;  for  twelve  years  the  dreadful  ogre,  the  beastly 
and  greedy  creature,  father  of  Orks  and  Jotuns,  de- 
voured men  and  emptied  the  best  of  houses.  Beowulf, 
the  great  warrior,  offers  to  grapple  with  the  fiend,  and 
foe  to  foe  contend  for  life,  without  the  bearing  of  either 
sword  or  ample  shield,  for  he  has  "learned  also  that 
the  wretch  for  his  cursed  hide  recketh  not  of  weapons," 
asking  only  that  if  death  takes  him,  they  will  bear 
forth  his  bloody  corpse  and  bury  it ;  mark  his  fen- 
dwelling,  and  send  to  Hygelac,  his  chief,  the  best  of 
war-shrouds  that  guards  his  breast. 

He  is  lying  in  the  hall,  "  trusting  in  his  proud 
strength ;  and  when  the  mists  of  night  arose,  lo, 
Greudel  conies,  tears  open  the  door,"  seized  a  sleeping 
warrior :  "  he  tore  him  unawares,  he  bit  his  body,  he 
drank  the  blood  from  the  veins,  he  swallowed  him 
with  continual  tearings."  But  Beowulf  seized  him  in 
turn,  and  "  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow." 

"  The  lordly  hall  thundered,  the  ale  was  spilled  .  .  .  both 
were  enraged  ;  savage  and  strong  warders  ;  the  house  resounded  ; 
then  was  it  a  great  wonder  that  the  wine-hall  withstood  the 
beasts  of  war,  that  it  fell  not  upon  the  earth,  the  fair  palace  ; 
but  it  was  thus  fast.  .  .  .  The  noise  arose,  new  enough  ;  a 
fearful  terror  fell  on  the  North  Danes,  on  each  of  those  who 
from  the  wall  heard  the  outcry,  God's  denier  sing  his  dreadful 


64  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

lay,  bis  song  of  defeat,  lament  his  wound.1  .  .  .  The  foul  wretch 
awaited  the  mortal  wound ;  a  mighty  gash  was  evident  upon 
his  shoulder ;  the  sinews  sprung  asunder,  the  junctures  of  the 
bones  burst ;  success  in  war  was  given  to  Beowulf.  Thence 
must  Grendel  fly  sick  unto  death,  among  the  refuges  of  the  fens, 
to  seek  his  joyless  dwelling.  He  all  the  better  knew  that  the 
end  of  his  life,  the  number  of  his  days  was  gone  by."  2 

For  he  had  left  on  the  ground,  "hand,  arm,  and  shoulder;" 
and  "  in  the  lake  of  Nicors,  where  he  was  driven,  the 
rough  wave  was  boiling  with  blood,  the  foul  spring  of 
waves  all  mingled,  hot  with  poison ;  the  dye,  discoloured 
with  death,  bubbled  with  warlike  gore."  There  re- 
mained a  female  monster,  his  mother,  who  like  him 
"  was  doomed  to  inhabit  the  terror  of  waters,  the  cold 
streams,"  who  came  by  night,  and  amidst  drawn  swords 
tore  and  devoured  another  man,  ^Eschere,  the  king's 
best  friend.  A  lamentation  arose  in  the  palace,  and 
Beowulf  offered  himself  again.  They  went  to  the  den, 
a  hidden  land,  the  refuge  of  the  wolf,  near  the  windy 
promontories,  where  a  mountain  stream  rusheth  down- 
wards under  the  darkness  of  the  hills,  a  flood  beneath 
the  earth ;  the  wood  fast  by  its  roots  overshadoweth 
the  water;  there  may  one  by  night  behold  a  marvel, 
fire  upon  the  flood :  the  stepper  over  the  heath,  when 
wearied  out  by  the  hounds,  sooner  will  give  up  his 
soul,  his  life  upon  the  brink,  than  plunge  therein  to 
hide  his  head.  Strange  dragons  and  serpents  swam 
there ;  "  from  time  to  time  the  horn  sang  a  dirge,  a 
terrible  song."  Beowulf  plunged  into  the  wave,  de- 
scended, passed  monsters  who  tore  his  coat  of  mail,  to 
the  ogress,  the  hateful  manslayer,  who,  seizing  him  in 
her  grasp,  bore  him  off  to  her  dwelling.  A  pale  gleam 
1  Kemble's  Beowulf,  xi.  p.  32.  a  Ibid.  xiL  p.  34. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  65 

shone  brightly,  and  there,  face  to  face,  the  good  cham- 
pion perceived 

"  the  she-wolf  of  the  abyss,  the  mighty  sea-woman ;  he  gave  the 
war-onset  with  his  battle-bill ;  he  held  not  back  the  swing  of 
the  sword,  so  that  on  her  head  the  ring-mail  sang  aloud  a  greedy 
war-song.  .  .  .  The  beam  of  war  would  not  bite.  Then 
caught  the  prince  of  the  War-Geats  Grendel's  mother  by  the 
shoulder  .  .  .  twisted  the  homicide,  so  that  she  bent  upon 
the  floor.  .  .  .  She  drew  her  knife  broad,  brown-edged  (and 
tried  to  pierce),  the  twisted  breast-net  which  protected  his 
life.  .  .  .  Then  saw  he  among  the  weapons  a  bill  fortunate 
in  victory,  an  old  gigantic  sword,  doughty  of  edge,  ready  for 
use,  the  work  of  giants.  He  seized  the  belted  hilt ;  the 
warrior  of  the  Scyldings,  fierce  and  savage  whirled  the  ring- 
mail  ;  despairing  of  life,  he  struck  furiously,  so  that  it  grappled 
hard  with  her  about  her  neck ;  it  broke  the  bone-rings,  the  bill 
passed  through  all  the  doomed  body ;  she  sank  upon  the  floor ; 
the  sword  was  bloody,  the  man  rejoiced  in  his  deed ;  the  beam 
shone,  light  stood  within,  even  as  from  heaven  mildly  shines  the 
lamp  of  the  firmament." l 

Then  he  saw  Grendel  dead  in  a  corner  ot  the  hall ;  and 
four  of  his  companions,  having  with  difficulty  raised 
the  monstrous  head,  bore  it  by  the  hair  to  the  palace 
of  the  king. 

That  was  his  first  labour ;  and  the  rest  of  his  life 
was  similar.  When  he  had  reigned  fifty  years  on 
earth,  a  dragon,  who  had  been  robbed  of  his  treasure, 
came  from  the  hill  and  burned  men  and  houses  "with 
waves  of  fire."  "Then  did  the  refuge  of  earls  com- 
mand to  make  for  him  a  variegated  shield,  all  of  iron : 
he  knew  well  enough  that  a  shield  of  wood  could  not 
help  him,  lindemvood  opposed  to  fire.  .  .  .  The  prince 

1  Beowulf t  xxii.  xxiii.  p.  62  et  passim. 
VOL.  I.  F 


66  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

of  rings  was  then  too  proud  to  seek  the  wide  flier  with 
a  troop,  with  a  large  company ;  he  feared  not  for  himself 
that  battle,  nor  did  he  make  any  account  of  the  dragon's 
war,  his  laboriousness  and  valour."  And  yet  he  was 
sad,  and  went  unwillingly,  for  he  was  "  fated  to  abide 
the  end."  Then  "  he  was  ware  of  a  cavern,  a  mound 
under  the  earth,  nigh  to  the  sea  wave,  the  clashing  of 
waters,  which  cave  was  full  within  of  embossed  orna- 
ments and  wires.  .  .  .  Then  the  king,  hard  in  war  sat 
upon  the  promontory,  whilst  he,  the  prince  of  the 
Geats,  bade  farewell  to  his  household  comrades.  .  .  . 
I,  the  old  guardian  of  my  people,  seek  a  feud."  He 
"  let  words  proceed  from  his  breast,'  the  dragon  came, 
vomiting  fire ;  the  blade  bit  not  his  body,  and  the  king 
"suffered  painfully,  involved  in  fire."  His  comrades 
had  "  turned  to  the  wood,  to  save  their  lives,"  all  save 
Wiglaf,  who  "  went  through  the  fatal  smoke,"  knowing 
well  "  that  it  was  not  the  old  custom  "  to  abandon  rela- 
tion and  prince,  "  that  he  alone  .  .  .  shall  suffer  dis- 
tress, shall  sink  in  battle."  "  The  worm  came  furious, 
the  foul  insidious  stranger,  variegated  with  waves  of 
fire,  .  .  .  hot  and  warlike  fierce,  he  clutched  the  whole 
neck  with  bitter  banes ;  he  was  bloodied  with  life-gore, 
the  blood  boiled  in  waves."1  They,  with  their  swords, 
carved  the  worm  in  the  midst.  Yet  the  wound  of  the 
king  became  burning  and  swelled ;  "  he  soon  discovered 
that  poison  boiled  in  his  breast  within,  and  sat  by  the 
wall  upon  a  stone";  "he  looked  upon  the  work  of 
giants,  how  the  eternal  cavern  held  within  stone  arches 
fast  upon  pillars."  Then  he  said — 

"  I  have  held  this  people  fifty  years  ;  there  -was  not  any  king 
of  my  neighbours,  who  dared  to  greet  me  with  warriors,  to  oppress 
1  Beowulf,  xxxiii.-xxxvi.  p.  94  et  passim. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  67 

me  with  terror.  ...  I  held  mine  own  well,  I  sought  not  treach- 
erous malice,  nor  swore  unjustly  many  oaths  ;  on  account  of  all 
this,  I,  sick  with  mortal  wounds,  may  have  joy.  .  .  .  Now  do 
thou  go  immediately  to  behold  the  hoard  under  the  hoary  stone, 
my  dear  Wiglaf.  .  .  .  Now,  I  have  purchased  with  my  death  a 
hoard  of  treasures  ;  it  will  be  yet  of  advantage  at  the  need  of 
the  people.  ...  I  give  thanks  .  .  .  that  I  might  before  my  dying 
day  obtain  such  for  my  peoples  .  .  .  longer  may  I  not  here  be." l 

This  is  thorough  and  real  generosity,  not  exaggerated 
and  pretended,  as  it  will  be  later  on  in  the  romantic 
imaginations  of  babbling  clerics,  mere  composers  of 
adventure.  Fiction  as  yet  is  not  far  removed  from 
fact:  the  man  breathes  manifest  beneath  the  hero. 
Rude  as  the  poetry  is,  its  hero  is  grand;  he  is  so, 
simply  by  his  deeds.  Faithful,  first  to  his  prince,  then 
to  his  people,  he  went  alone,  in  a  strange  land,  to 
venture  himself  for  the  delivery  of  his  fellow-men ;  he 
forgets  himself  in  death,  while  thinking  only  that  it 
profits  others.  "  Each  one  of  us,"  he  says  in  one  place, 
"  must  abide  the  end  of  his  present  life."  Let.  there- 
fore, each  do  justice,  if  he  can,  before  his  death.  Com- 
pare with  him  the  monsters  whom  he  destroys,  the  last 
traditions  of  the  ancient  wars  against  inferior  races,  and 
of  the  primitive  religion ;  think  of  his  life  of  danger, 
nights  upon  the  waves,  man  grappling  with  the  brute 
creation;  man's  indomitable  will  crushing  the  breasts 
of  beasts ;  man's  powerful  muscles  which,  when  exerted, 
tear  the  flesh  of  the  monsters :  you  will  see  reappear 
through  the  mist  of  legends,  and  under  the  light  of 
poetry,  the  valiant  men  who,  amid  the  madness  of  war 
and  the  raging  of  their  own  mood,  began  to  settle  a 
people  and  to  found  a  state. 

1  Beowulf,  xxxvii.  xxxviii.  p.  110  et  passim.  I  have  throughout 
always  used  the  very  words  of  Kemble's  translation. — TR. 


68  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  t 

V. 

One  poem  nearly  whole  and  two  or  three  fragments 
are  all  that  remain  of  this  lay-poetry  of  England.  The 
rest  of  the  pagan  current,  German  and  barbarian,  was 
arrested  or  overwhelmed,  first  by  the  influx  of  the 
Christian  religion,  then  by  the  conquest  of  the  Norman- 
French.  But  what  remains  more  than  suffices  to  show 
the  strange  and  powerful  poetic  genius  of  the  race,  and 
to  exhibit  beforehand  the  flower  in  the  bud. 

If  there  has  ever  been  anywhere  a  deep  and  serious 
poetic  sentiment,  it  is  here.  They  do  not  speak,  they 
sing,  or  rather  they  shout.  Each  little  verse  is  an  accla- 
mation, which  breaks  forth  like  a  growl ;  their  strong 
breasts  heave  with  a  groan  of  anger  or  enthusiasm,  and 
a  vehement  or  indistinct  phrase  or  expression  rises  sud- 
denly, almost  in  spite  of  them,  to  their  lips.  There  is  no 
art,  no  natural  talent,  for  describing  singly  and  in  order 
the  different  parts  of  an  object  or  an  event.  The  fifty 
rays  of  light  which  every  phenomenon  emits  in  succes- 
sion to  a  regular  and  well-directed  intellect,  come  to 
them  at  once  in  a  glowing  and  confused  mass,  disabling 
them  by  their  force  and  convergence.  Listen  to  their 
genuine  war-chants,  unchecked  and  violent,  as  became 
their  terrible  voices.  To  this  day,  at  this  distance  of 
time,  separated  as  they  are  by  manners,  speech,  ten 
centuries,  we  seem  to  hear  them  still : — 

"  The  army  goes  forth  :  the  birds  sing,  the  cricket  chirps,  the 
war-weapons  sound,  the  lance  clangs  against  the  shield.  Now 
shineth  the  moon,  wandering  under  the  sky.  Now  arise  deeds 
of  woe,  which  the  enmity  of  this  people  prepares  to  do.  ... 
Then  in  the  court  came  the  tumult  of  war-carnage.  They  seized 
with  their  hands  the  hollow  wood  of  the  shield.  They  smote 
through  the  bones  of  the  head.  The  roofs  of  the  castle  resounded, 


CHAP.  I.  THE  SAXONS.  69 

until  Garulf  fell  in  battle,  the  first  of  earth-dwelling  men,  son 
of  Guthlaf.  Around  him  lay  many  brave  men  dying.  The 
raven  whirled  about,  dark  and  sombre,  like  a  willow  leaf.  There 
was  a  sparkling  of  blades,  as  if  all  Finsburg  were  on  fire.  Never 
have  I  heard  of  a  more  worthy  battle  in  war." l 

This  is  the  song  on  Athelstan's  victory  at  Brananburh : 

"  Here  Athelstan  king,  of  earls  the  lord,  the  giver  of  the 
bracelets  of  the  nobles,  and  his  brother  also,  Edmund  the  aethel- 
ing,  the  Elder  a  lasting  glory  won  by  slaughter  in  battle,  with 
the  edges  of  swords,  at  Brunanburh.  The  wall  of  shields  they 
cleaved,  they  hewed  the  noble  banners  :  with  the  rest  of  the 
family,  the  children  of  Edward.  .  .  .  Pursuing,  they  destroyed 
the  Scottish  people  and  the  ship-fleet.  .  .  .  The  field  was 
coloured  with  the  warrior's  blood  !  After  that  the  sun  on  high, 
.  .  .  the  greatest  star  !  glided  over  the  earth,  God's  candle 
bright  !  till  the  noble  creature  hastened  to  her  setting.  There 
lay  soldiers  many  with  darts  struck  down,  Northern  men  over 
their  shields  shot.  So  were  the  Scots  ;  weary  of  ruddy  battle. 
.  .  .  The  screamers  of  war  they  left  behind  ;  the  raven  to  enjoy, 
the  dismal  kite,  and  the  black  raven  with  horned  beak,  and  the 
hoarse  toad  ;  the  eagle,  afterwards  to  feast  on  the  white  flesh  ; 
the  greedy  battle-hawk,  and  the  grey  beast,  the  wolf  in  the 
wood." 2 

Here  all  is  imagery.  In  their  impassioned  minds 
events  are  not  bald,  with  the  dry  propriety  of  an  exact 
description ;  each  fits  in  with  its  pomp  of  sound,  shape, 
colouring;  it  is  almost  a  vision  which  is  raised,  com- 
plete, with  its  accompanying  emotions,  joy,  fury,  ex- 
citement. In  their  speech,  arrows  are  "the  serpents  of 
Hel,  shot  from  bows  of  horn;"  ships  are  "great  sea- 

1  Conybeare's  Illustrations  of  Anglo-Saxon  Poetry,  1826,  Battle  of 
Finsborough,  p.  175.  The  complete  collection  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry 
has  been  published  by  M.  Grein. 

?  Turuer,  Hist,  of  Anglo-Saxons,  iii.,  book  9,  ch.  i.  p.  245. 


70  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

steeds,"  the  sea  is  "a  chalice  of  waves/'  the  helmet  is 
"  the  castle  of  the  head :"  they  need  an  extraordinary 
speech  to  express  their  vehement  sensations,  so  that  after 
a  time,  in  Iceland,  where  this  kind  of  poetry  was  carried 
on  to  excess,  the  earlier  inspiration  failed,  art  replaced 
nature,  the  Skalds  were  reduced  to  a  distorted  and  obscure 
jargon.  But  whatever  be  the  imagery,  here  as  in  Iceland, 
though  unique,  it  is  too  feeble.  The  poets  have  not 
satisfied  their  inner  emotion  if  it  is  only  expressed  by  a 
single  word.  Time  after  time  they  return  to  and  re- 
peat their  idea.  "  The  sun  on  high,  the  great  star,  God's 
brilliant  candle,  the  noble  creature  ! "  Four  times  suc- 
cessively they  employ  the  same  thought,  and  each  time 
under  a  new  aspect.  All  its  different  aspects  rise 
simultaneously  before  the  barbarian's  eyes,  and  each  word 
was  like  a  fit  of  the  semihallucination  which  possessed 
him.  Verily,  in  such  a  condition,  the  regularity  of 
speech  and  of  ideas  is  disturbed  at  every  turn.  The 
succession  of  thought  in  the  visionary  is  not  the  same 
as  in  a  reasoning  mind.  One  colour  induces  another ; 
from  sound  he  passes  to  sound ;  his  imagination  is  like 
a  diorama  of  unexplained  pictures.  His  phrases  recur 
and  change :  he  emits  the  word  that  comes  to  his  lips 
without  hesitation;  he  leaps  over  wide  intervals  from  idea 
to  idea.  The  more  his  mind  is  transported,  the  quicker 
and  wider  the  intervals  traversed.  With  one  spring 
he  visits  the  poles  of  his  horizon,  and  touches  in  one 
moment  objects  which  seemed  to  have  the  world  between 
them.  His  ideas  are  entangled  without  order ;  without 
notice,  abruptly,  the  poet  will  return  'to  the  idea  he  has 
quitted,  and  insert  it  in  the  thought  to  which  he  is 
giving  expression.  It  is  impossible  to  translate  these  in- 
congruous ideas,  which  quite  disconcert  our  modern  sty  la 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  71 

At  times  they  are  unintelligible.1  Articles,  particles, 
everything  capable  of  illuminating  thought,  of  marking 
the  connection  of  terms,  of  producing  regularity  of  ideas, 
all  rational  and  logical  artifices,  are  neglected.2  Passion 
bellows  forth  like  a  great  shapeless  beast ;  and  that  is  all. 
It  rises  and  starts  in  little  abrupt  lines ;  it  is  the  acme 
of  barbarism.  Homer's  happy  poetry  is  copiously  de- 
veloped, in  full  narrative,  with  rich  and  extended 
imagery.  All  the  details  of  a  complete  picture  are  not 
too  much  for  him ;  he  loves  to  look  at  things,  he  lingers 
over  them,  rejoices  in  their  beauty,  dresses  them  in 
splendid  words ;  he  is  like  the  Greek  girls,  who  thought 
themselves  ugly  if  they  did  not  bedeck  arms  and 
shoulders  with  all  the  gold  coins  from  their  purse,  and 
all  the  treasures  from  their  caskets ;  his  long  verses  flow 
by  with  their  cadences,  and  spread  out  like  a  purple  robe 
under  an  Ionian  sun.  Here  the  clumsy-fingered  poet 
crowds  and  clashes  his  ideas  in  a  narrow  measure ; 
if  measure  there  be,  he  barely  observes  it ;  all  his  orna- 
ment is  three  words  beginning  with  the  same  letter. 
His  chief  care  is  to  abridge,  to  imprison  thought  in  a 
kind  of  mutilated  cry.3  The  force  of  the  internal  im- 
pression, which,  not  knowing  how  to  unfold  itself, 
becomes  condensed  and  doubled  by  accumulation ;  the 
harshness  of  the  outward  expression,  which,  subservient 

1  The  cleverest  Anglo-Saxon  scholars,  Turner,  Conybeare,  Thorpe 
recognise  this  difficulty. 

2  Turner,  iii.  231,  et  j>assiin.     The  translations  in  French,  however 
literal,  do  injustice  to  the  text ;  that  language  is  too  clear,  too  logical. 
No  Frenchman  can  understand  this  extraordinary  phase  of  intellect, 
except  by  taking  a  dictionary,  and  deciphering  some  pages  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  for  a  fortnight. 

3  Turner  remarks  that  the  same  idea  expressed  by  King  Alfred,  in 
prose  and  then  in  verse,  takes  in  the  first  case  seven  words,  in  the  second 
five. — History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  iii.  235. 


72  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  t 

to  the  energy  and  shocks  of  the  inner  sentiment,  seeks 
only  to  exhibit  it  intact  and  original,  in  spite  of  and 
at  the  expense  of  all  order  and  beauty, — such  are  the 
characteristics  of  their  poetry,  and  these  also  will  be 
the  characteristics  of  the  poetry  which  is  to  follow. 

VI. 

A  race  so  constituted  was  predisposed  to  Christianity, 
by  its  gloom,  its  aversion  to  sensual  and  reckless  living, 
its  inclination  for  the  serious  and  sublime.  When 
their  sedentary  habits  had  reconciled  their  souls  to 
a  long  period  of  ease,  and  weakened  the  fury  which 
fed  their  sanguinary  religion,  they  readily  inclined 
to  a  new  faith.  The  vague  adoration  of  the  great 
powers  of  nature,  which  eternally  fight  for  mutual  de- 
struction, and,  when  destroyed,  rise  up  again  to  the 
combat,  had  long  since  disappeared  in  the  dim  distance. 
Society,  on  its  formation,  introduced  the  idea  of  peace 
and  the  need  for  justice,  and  the  war-gods  faded  from 
the  minds  of  men,  with  the  passions  which  had  created 
them.  A  century  and  a  half  after  the  invasion  by  the 
Saxons,1  Roman  missionaries,  bearing  a  silver  cross 
with  a  picture  of  Christ,  came  in  procession  chanting  a 
litany.  Presently  the  high  priest  of  the  Northumbrians 
declared  in  presence  of  the  nobles  that  the  old  gods 
were  powerless,  and  confessed  that  formerly  "  he  knew 
nothing  of  that  which  he  adored ;"  and  he  among  the 
first,  lance  in  hand,  assisted  to  demolish  their  temple. 

Then  a  chief  rose  in  the  assembly,  and  said  : 
/ 

"  You  remember,  it  may  be,  0  king,  that  which  sometimes 

happens  in  winter  when  you  are  seated  at  table  with  your  earla 

and  thanes.     Your  fire  is  lighted,  and  your  hall  warmed,  and 

1  5W-625.     Aug.  Thierry,  i.  81  ;  Bede,  xiL  2. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  73 

without  is  rain  and  snow  and  storm.  Then  comes  a  swallow 
flying  across  the  hall ;  he  enters  by  one  door,  and  leaves  by 
another.  The  brief  moment  while  he  is  within  is  pleasant  to 
him  ;  he  feels  not  rain  nor  cheerless  winter  weather ;  but  the 
moment  is  brief — the  bird  flies  away  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  and  he  passes  from  winter  to  winter.  Such,  methinks,  is 
the  life  of  man  on  earth,  compared  with  the  uncertain  time 
beyond.  It  appears  for  a  while ;  but  what  is  the  time  which 
comes  after — the  time  which  was  before  1  We  know  not.  If, 
then,  this  new  doctrine  may  teach  us  somewhat  of  greater  cer- 
tainty, it  were  well  that  we  should  regard  it." 

This  restlessness,  this  feeling  of  the  infinite  and  dark 
beyond,  this  sober,  melancholy  eloquence,  were  the  har- 
bingers of  spiritual  life.1  We  find  nothing  like  it 
amongst  the  nations  of  the  south,  naturally  pagan,  and 
preoccupied  with  the  present  life.  These  litter  bar- 
barians embrace  Christianity  straightway,  through  sheer 
force  of  mood  and  clime.  To  no  purpose  are  they  brutal, 
heavy,  shackled  by  infantine  superstitions,  capable,  like 
King  Canute,  of  buying  for  a  hundred  golden  talents  the 
arm  of  Augustine.  They  possess  the  idea  of  God.  This 
grand  God  of  the  Bible,  omnipotent  and  unique,  who 
disappears  almost  entirely  in  the  middle  ages,2  obscured 
by  His  court  and  His  family,  endures  amongst  them 
in  spite  of  absurd  or  grotesque  legends.  They  do  not 
blot  Him  out  under  pious  romances,  by  the  elevation 
of  the  saints,  or  under  feminine  caresses,  to  benefit 
the  infant  Jesus  and  the  Virgin.  Their  grandeur  and 
their  severity  raise  them  to  His  high  level ;  they  are 
not  tempted,  like  artistic  and  talkative  nations,  to 
replace  religion  by  a  fair  and  agreeable  narrative. 
More  than  any  race  in  Europe,  they  approach,  by  the 

1  Jouti'roy,  Problem  of  Human  Destiny. 
3  Michelet,  preface  to  La  Renaissance  ;  Didron,  HisMre  de  Dieu. 


74  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

simplicity  and  energy  of  their  conceptions,  the  old 
Hebraic  spirit.  Enthusiasm  is  their  natural  condition  ; 
and  their  new  Deity  fills  them  with  admiration,  as 
their  ancient  deities  inspired  them  with  fury.  They 
have  hymns,  genuine  odes,  which  are  but  a  concrete  ol 
exclamations.  They  have  no  development;  they  are 
incapable  of  restraining  or  explaining  their  passion ;  it 
bursts  forth,  in  raptures,  at  the  vision  of  the  Almighty. 
The  heart  alone  speaks  here — a  strong,  barbarous  heart. 
Caedmon,  their  old  poet,1  says  Bede,  was  a  more  igno- 
rant man  than  the  others,  who  knew  no  poetry;  so 
that  in  the  hall,  when  they  handed  him  the  harp, 
he  was  obliged  to  withdraw,  being  unable  to  sing  like 
his  companions.  Once,  keeping  night-watch  over  the 
stable,  he  fell  asleep.  A  stranger  appeared  to  him, 
and  asked  him  to  sing  something,  and  these  words 
came  into  his  head :  "  Now  we  ought  to  praise  the  Lord 
of  heaven,  the  power  of  the  Creator,  and  His  skill,  the 
deeds  of  the  Father  of  glory ;  how  He,  being  eternal 
.  God,  is  the  author  of  all  marvels ;  who,  almighty 
guardian  of  the  human  race,  created  first  for  the  sons 
of  men  the  heavens  as  the  roof  of  their  dwelling,  and 
then  the  earth."  Remembering  this  when  he  woke,2 
he  came  to  the  town,  and  they  brought  him  before  the 
learned  men,  before  the  abbess  Hilda,  who,  when  they 
had  heard  him,  thought  that  he  had  received  a  gift 
from  heaven,  and  made  him  a  monk  in  the  abbey. 
There  he  spent  his  life  listening  to  portions  of  Holy 
Writ,  which  were  explained  to  him  in  Saxon,  "  rumi- 
nating over  them  like  a  pure  animal,  turned  them  into 
most  sweet  verse."  Thus  is  true  poetry  born.  These 
men  pray  with  all  the  emotion  of  a  new  soul ;  they 
kneel ;  they  adore ;  the  less  they  know  the  more  they 
1  About  630.  See  Codex  Exoniensis,  Thorpe.  9  Bede,  iv.  24 


CHAP.  l.  THE  SAXONS.  75 

think.  Some  one  has  said  that  the  first  and  most 
sincere  hymn  is  this  one  word  0  !  Theirs  were  hardly 
longer;  they  only  repeated  time  after  time  some  deep 
passionate  word,  with  monotonous  vehemence.  "  In 
heaven  art  Thou,  our  aid  and  succour,  resplendent  with 
happiness  !  All  things  bow  before  thee,  before  the  glory 
of  Thy  Spirit.  With  one  voice  they  call  upon  Christ ; 
they  all  cry :  Holy,  holy  art  thou,  King  of  the  angels  of 
heaven,  our  Lord !  and  Thy  judgments  are  just  and 
great :  they  reign  for  ever  and  in  all  places,  in  the 
multitude  of  Thy  works."  We  are  reminded  of  the 
songs  of  the  servants  of  Odin,  tonsured  now,  and  clad  in 
the  garments  of  monks.  Their  poetry  is  the  same ;  they 
think  of  God,  as  of  Odin,  in  a  string  of  short,  accumu- 
lated, passionate  images,  like  a  succession  of  lightning- 
flashes  ;  the  Christian  hymns  are  a  sequel  to  the  pagan. 
One  of  them,  Adhelm,  stood  on  a  bridge  leading  to  the 
town  where  he  lived,  and  repeated  warlike  and  profane 
odes  as  well  as  religious  poetry,  in  order  to  attract  and 
instruct  the  men  of  his  time.  He  could  do  it  without 
changing  his  key.  In  one  of  them,  a  funeral  song, 
Death  speaks.  It  was  one  of  the  last  Saxon  composi- 
tions, containing  a  terrible  Christianity,  which  seems  at 
the  same  time  to  have  sprung  from  the  blackest  depths 
of  the  Edda.  The  brief  metre  sounds  abruptly,  with 
measured  stroke,  like  the  passing  bell.  It  is  as  if  we 
hear  the  dull  resounding  responses  which  roll  through 
the  church,  while  the  rain  beats  on  the  dim  glass,  and 
the  broken  clouds  sail  mournfully  in  the  sky;  and  our 
eyes,  glued  to  the  pale  face  of  a  dead  man,  feel  before- 
hand the  horror  of  the  damp  grave  into  which  the  living 
are  about  to  cast  him. 

"  For  thee  was  a  house  built  ere  thou  wert  born ;  for  thee 


76  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i 

was  a  mould  shapen  ere  thou  of  thy  mother  earnest.  Its  height 
is  not  determined,  nor  its  depth  measured  ;  nor  is  it  closed  up 
(however  long  it  may  be)  until  I  thee  bring  where  thou  shalt 
remain  ;  until  I  shall  measure  thee  and  the  sod  of  the  earth. 
Thy  house  is  not  highly  built ;  it  is  unhigh  and  low.  When 
thou  art  in  it,  the  heel-ways  are  low,  the  side-ways  unhigh. 
The  roof  is  built  thy  breast  full  nigh  ;  so  thou  shalt  in  earth 
dwell  full  cold,  dim,  and  dark.  Doorless  is  that  house,  and  dark 
it  is  within.  There  thou  art  fast  detained,  and  Death  holds  the 
key.  Loathly  is  that  earth-house,  and  grim  to  dwell  in.  There 
thou  shalt  dwell,  and  worms  shall  share  thee.  Thus  thou  art 
laid,  and  leavest  thy  friends.  Thou  hast  no  friend  that  will 
come  to  thee,  who  will  ever  inquire  how  that  house  liketh  thee, 
who  shall  ever  open  for  thee  the  door,  and  seek  thee,  for  soon 
thou  becomest  loathly  and  hateful  to  look  upon." l 

Has  Jeremy  Taylor  a  more  gloomy  picture  ?  The  two 
religious  poetries,  Christian  and  pagan,  are  so  like,  that 
one  might  mingle  their  incongruities,  images,  and  legends. 
In  Beowulf,  altogether  pagan,  the  Deity  appears  as  Odin, 
more  mighty  and  serene,  and  differs  from  the  other  only 
as  a  peaceful  Bretwalda2  differs  from  an  adventurous 
and  heroic  bandit-chief.  The  Scandinavian  monsters, 
Jotuns,  enemies  of  the  ^Esir,3  have  not  vanished ;  but 
they  descend  from  Cain,  and  the  giants  drowned  by 
the  flood.4  Their  new  hell  is  nearly  the  ancient  Nas- 
trand,5  "  a  dwelling  deadly  cold,  full  of  bloody  eagles 
and  pale  adders ;"  and  the  dreadful  last  day  of  judg- 

1  Conybeare's  Rlustrations,  p.  271. 

2  Bretwalda  was  a  species  of  war-king,  or  temporary  and  elective 
chief  of  all  the  Saxons.— TR. 

3  The  JEair  (sing.  As)  are  the  gods  of  the  Scandinavian  nations,  of 
whom  Odin  was  the  chief. — TR. 

4  Kemble,  i.  i.  xii.     In  this  chapter  he  has  collected  many  features 
which  show  the  endurance  of  the  ancient  mythology. 

6  Nastrand  is  the  strand  or  shore  of  the  dead.—  Ta, 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  77 

ment,  when  all  will  crumble  into  dust,  and  make  way 
for  a  purer  world,  resembles  the  final  destruction  of 
Edda,  that  "  twilight  of  the  gods,"  which  will  end  in  a 
victorious  regeneration,  an  everlasting  joy  "under  a 
fairer  sun." 

By  this  natural  conformity  they  were  able  to  make 
their  religious  poems  indeed  poems.  Power  in  spiritual 
productions  arises  only  from  the  sincerity  of  personal 
and  original  sentiment.  If  they  can  relate  religious 
tragedies,  it  is  because  their  soul  was  tragic,  and  in  a 
degree  biblical.  They  introduce  into  their  verses,  like 
the  old  prophets  of  Israel,  their  fierce  vehemence,  their 
murderous  hatreds,  their  fanaticism,  all  the  shudderings 
of  their  flesh  and  blood.  One  of  them,  whose  poem  is 
mutilated,  has  related  the  history  of  Judith — with 
what  inspiration  we  shall  see.  It  needed  a  barbarian 
to  display  in  such  strong  light  excesses,  tumult,  murder, 
vengeance,  and  combat. 

"  Then  was  Holofernes  exhilarated  with  wine  ;  in  the  halls  of 
his  guests  he  laughed  and  shouted,  he  roared  and  dinned.  Then 
might  the  children  of  men  afar  off  hear  how  the  stern  one  stormed 
and  clamoured,  animated  and  elated  with  wine.  He  admonished 
amply  that  they  should  bear  it  well  to  those  sitting  on  the  bench. 
So  was  the  wicked  one  over  all  the  day,  the  lord  arid  his  men, 
drank  with  wine,  the  stem  dispenser  of  wealth  ;  till  that  they 
swimming  lay  over  drunk,  all  his  nobility,  as  they  were  death- 
slain."  l 

The  night  having  arrived,  he  commands  them  to 
bring  into  his  tent  "  the  illustrious  virgin ; "  then, 
going  in  to  visit  her,  he  falls  drunk  on  his  bed.  The 
moment  was  come  for  "  the  maid  of  the  Creator,  the 
holy  woman." 

*  Turner,  Hist,  of  Anglo-Saxons,  iii.  book  9,  ch.  3,  p.  271, 


78  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

"  She  took  the  heathen  man  fast  by  his  hair  ;  she  drew  him 
by  his  limbs  towards  her  disgracefully ;  and  the  mischief-ful 
odious  man  at  her  pleasure  laid  ;  so  as  the  wretch  she  might  the 
easiest  well  command.  She  with  the  twisted  locks  struck  the 
hateful  enemy,  meditating  hate,  with  the  red  sword,  till  she  had 
half  cut  off  his  neck  ;  so  that  he  lay  in  a  swoon,  drunk  and 
mortally  wounded.  He  was  not  then  dead,  not  entirely  lifeless. 
She  struck  then  earnest,  the  woman  illustrious  in  strength, 
another  time  the  heathen  hound,  till  that  his  head  rolled  forth 
upon  the  floor.  The  foul  one  lay  without  a  coffer ;  backward 
his  spirit  tinned  under  the  abyss,  and  there  was  plunged  below, 
with  sulphur  fastened  ;  for  ever  afterwards  wounded  by  worms. 
Bound  in  torments,  hard  imprisoned,  in  hell  he  burns.  After 
his  course  he  need  not  hope,  with  darkness  overwhelmed,  that 
he  may  escape  from  that  mansion  of  worms  ;  but  there  he  shall 
remain  ;  ever  and  ever,  without  end,  henceforth  in  that  cavern- 
house,  void  of  the  joys  of  hope." J 

Has  any  one  ever  heard  a  sterner  accent  of  satisfied 
hate?  When  Clovis  listened  to  the  Passion  play,  he 
cried,  "  Why  was  I  not  there  with  my  Franks  ! "  So 
here  the  old  warrior  instinct  swelled  into  flame  over 
the  Hebrew  wars.  As  soon  as  Judith  returned, 

"  Men  under  helms  (went  out)  from  the  holy  city  at  the  dawn 
itself.  They  dinned  shields ;  men  roared  loudly.  At  this 
rejoiced  the  lank  wolf  in  the  wood,  and  the  wan  raven,  the  fowl 
greedy  of  slaughter,  both  from  the  west,  that  the  sons  of  men 
for  them  should  have  thought  to  prepare  their  fill  on  corpses. 
And  to  them  flew  in  their  paths  the  active  devourer,  the  eagle, 
hoary  in  his  feathers.  The  willowed  kite,  with  his  horned  beak, 
sang  the  song  of  Hilda.  The  noble  warriors  proceeded,  they  in 
mail,  to  the  battle,  furnished  with  shields,  with  swelling  banners. 
.  .  .  They  then  speedily  let  fly  forth  showers  of  arrows,  the 
serpents  of  Hilda,  from  their  horn  bows ;  the  spears  on  the 
1  Turner,  Hist,  of  Anglo-Saxons,  iii.  book  9,  ch.  3,  p.  272. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  79 

ground  hard  stormed.  Loud  raged  the  plunderers  of  battle ; 
they  sent  their  darts  into  the  throng  of  the  chiefs.  .  .  .  They 
that  awhile  before  the  reproach  of  the  foreigners,  the  taunts  of 
the  heathen  endured."  l 

Amongst  all  these  unknown  poets2  there  is  one 
whose  name  we  know,  Caedmon,  perhaps  the  old  Csed- 
mon  who  wrote  the  first  hymn ;  like  him,  at  all  events, 
who,  paraphrasing  the  Bible  with  a  barbarian's  vigour 
and  sublimity,  has  shown  the  grandeur  and  fury  of  the 
sentiment  with  which  the  men  of  these  times  entered 
into  their  new  religion.  He  also  sings  when  he  speaks  ; 
when  he  mentions  the  ark,  it  is  with  a  profusion  of 
poetic  names,  "  the  floating  house,  the  greatest  of  float- 
ing chambers,  the  wooden  fortress,  the  moving  roof, 
the  cavern,  the  great  sea-chest,"  and  many  more. 
Every  time  he  thinks  of  it,  he  sees  it  with  his  mind, 
like  a  quick  luminous  vision,  and  each  time  under  a 
new  aspect,  now  undulating  on  the  muddy  waves, 
between  two  ridges  of  foam,  now  casting  over  the  water 
its  enormous  shadow,  black  and  high  like  a  castle, 
"  now  enclosing  in  its  cavernous  sides "  the  endless 
swarm  of  caged  beasts.  Like  the  others,  he  wrestles 
with  God  in  his  heart ;  triumphs  like  a  warrior  over 
destruction  and  victory;  and  in  relating  the  death  of 
Pharaoh,  can  hardly  speak  from  anger,  or  see,  because 
the  blood  mounts  to  his  eyes : 

"  The  folk  was  affrighted,  the  flood-dread  seized  on  their  sad 
souls  ;  ocean  wailed  with  death,  the  mountain  heights  were  with 
blood  besteamed,  the  sea  foamed  gore,  crying  was  in  the  waves, 
the  water  full  of  weapons,  a  death-mist  rose ;  the  Egyptians 
were  turned  back  ;  trembling  they  fled,  they  felt  fear  :  would 

1  Turner,  Hist,  of  Anglo-Saxons,  iii.  book  9,  ch.  3,  p.  274. 
*  Grein,  Bibliothek  der  Angelscechsischen  poesie. 


80  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i 

that  host  gladly  find  their  homes  ;  their  vaunt  grew  sadder : 
against  them,  as  a  cloud,  rose  the  fell  rolling  of  the  waves  ;  there 
came  not  any  of  that  host  to  home,  but  from  behind  inclosed 
them  fate  with  the  wave.  Where  ways  ere  lay,sea  raged.  Their 
might  was  merged,  the  streams  stood,  the  storm  rose  high  to 
heaven  ;  the  loudest  army-cry  the  hostile  uttered  ;  the  air  above 
was  thickened  with  dying  voices.  .  .  .  Ocean  raged,  drew  itself 
up  on  high,  the  storms  rose,  the  corpses  rolled." l 

Is  the  song  of  the  Exodus  more  abrupt,  more  vehe- 
ment, or  more  savage  ?  These  men  can  speak  of  the 
creation  like  the  Bible,  because  they  speak  of  destruc- 
tion like  the  Bible.  They  have  only  to  look  into  their 
own  hearts,  in  order  to  discover  an  emotion  sufficiently 
strong  to  raise  their  souls  to  the  height  of  their  Creator. 
This  emotion  existed  already  in  their  pagan  legends; 
and  Csedmon,  in  order  to  recount  the  origin  of  things, 
has  only  to  turn  to  the  ancient  dreams,  such  as  have 
been  preserved  in  the  prophecies  of  the  Edda. 

"  There  had  not  here  as  yet,  save  cavern-shade,  aught  been  ; 
but  this  wide  abyss  stood  deep  and  dim,  strange  to  its  Lord,  idle 
and  useless ;  on  which  looked  with  his  eyes  the  King  firm  of 
mind,  and  beheld  those  places  void  of  joys  ;  saw  the  dark  cloud 
lower  in  eternal  night,  swart  under  heaven,  dark  and  waste, 
until  this  worldly  creation  through  the  word  existed  of  the  Glory- 
King.  .  .  .  The  earth  as  yet  was  not  green  with  grass  ;  ocean 
cover'd,  swart  in  eternal  night,  far  and  wide  the  dusky  ways." » 

In  this  manner  will  Milton  hereafter  speak,  the 
descendant  of  the  Hebrew  seers,  last  of  the  Scandi- 
navian seers,  but  assisted  in  the  development  of  his 
thought  by  all  the  resources  of  Latin  culture  and 

1  Thorpe,  Caedmon,  1832,  xlvii.  p.  206. 

1  Thorpe,  Caedmon,  ii.  p.  7.  A  likeness  exists  between  this  song 
and  corresponding  portions  of  the  Edda. 


V-I.  P-8o. 


JOHN    MILTON 


CHAP,  i  THE  SAXONS.  81 

civilisation.  And  yet  lie  will  add  nothing  to  the 
primitive  sentiment.  Eeligious  instinct  is  not  acquired  ; 
it  belongs  to  the  blood,  and  is  inherited  with  it.  So 
it  is  with  other  instincts;  pride  in  the  first  place, 
indomitable  self-conscious  energy,  which  sets  man  in 
opposition  to  all  domination,  and  inures  him  against 
all  pain.  Milton's  Satan  exists  already  in  Csedmon's, 
as  the  picture  exists  in  the  sketch ;  because  both  have 
their  model  in  the  race ;  and  Csedmon  found  his  origi- 
nals in  the  northern  warriors,  as  Milton  did  in  the 
Puritans : 

"  Why  shall  I  for  his  favour  serve,  bend  to  him  in  such 
vassalage  1  I  may  be  a  god  as  he.  Stand  by  me,  strong  associ- 
ates, who  will  not  fail  me  in  the  strife.  Heroes  stern  of  mood, 
they  have  chosen  me  for  chief,  renowned  warriors  !  with  such 
may  one  devise  counsel,  with  such  capture  his  adherents ;  they 
are  my  zealous  friends,  faithful  in  their  thoughts ;  I  may  be 
their  chieftain,  sway  in  this  realm  ;  thus  to  me  it  seemeth  not 
right  that  I  in  aught  need  cringe  to  God  for  any  good  ;  I  will 
no  longer  be  his  vassal." l 

He  is  overcome :  shall  he  be  subdued  ?  He  is  cast 
into  the  place  "  where  torment  they  suffer,  burning  heat 
intense,  in  midst  of  hell,  fire  and  broad  flames :  so  also 
the  bitter  seeks  smoke  and  darkness ; "  will  he  repent  ? 
At  first  he  is  astonished,  he  despairs ;  but  it  is  a  hero's 
despair. 

"  This  narrow  place  is  most  unlike  that  other  that  we  ere 
knew,2  high  in  heaven's  kingdom,  which  my  master  bestow'd  on 
me.  .  .  .  Oh,  had  I  power  of  my  hands,  and  might  one  season 

1  Thorpe,  Ccedmon,  iv.  p.  18. 

3  This  is  Milton's  opening  also.  (See  Paradise  Lost,  Book  i.  verse 
242,  etc.)  One  would  think  that  he  must  have  had  some  knowledge  of 
Caedmon  from  the  translation  of  Junius. 

VOL.  L  G 


82  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

be  without,  be  one  winter's  space,  then  with  this  host  I — But 
around  me  lie  iron  bonds,  presseth  this  cord  of  chain  :  I  am 
powerless  !  me  have  so  hard  the  clasps  of  hell,  so  firmly  grasped  ! 
Here  is  a  vast  fire  above  and  underneath,  never  did  I  see  a  loath- 
lier  landskip  ;  the  flame  abateth  not,  hot  over  hell.  Me  hath 
the  clasping  of  these  rings,  this  hard-polish'd  band,  impeded  in 
my  course,  debarfd  me  from  my  way ;  my  feet  are  bound,  ray 
hands  manacled,  ...  so  that  with  aught  I  cannot  from  these 
limb-bonds  escape." l 

As  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  against  God,  it  is 
His  new  creature,  man,  whom  he  must  attack.  To 
him  who  has  lost  everything,  vengeance  is  left ;  and  if 
the  conquered  can  enjoy  this,  he  will  find  himself 
happy ;  "  he  will  sleep  softly,  even  under  his  chains." 

VII. 

Here  the  foreign  culture  ceased.  Beyond  Christi- 
anity it  could  not  graft  upon  this  barbarous  stock  any 
fruitful  or  living  branch.  All  the  circumstances  which 
elsewhere  mellowed  the  wild  sap,  failed  here.  The 
Saxons  found  Britain  abandoned  by  the  Eomans ;  they 
had  not  yielded,  like  their  brothers  on  the  Continent, 
to  the  ascendency  of  a  superior  civilisation ;  they  had 
not  become  mingled  with  the  inhabitants  of  the  land ; 
they  had  always  treated  them  like  enemies  or  slaves, 
pursuing  like  wolves  those  who  escaped  to  the  moun- 
tains of  the  west,  treating  like  beasts  of  burden  those 
whom  they  had  conquered  with  the  land.  While  the 
Germans  of  Gaul,  Italy,  and  Spain  became  Eomans, 
the  Saxons  retained  their  language,  their  genius  and 
manners,  and  created  in  Britain  a  Germany  outside  of 
Germany.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  the  Saxon 
1  Thorpe,  Ccedmon,  iv.  p.  23. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  83 

invasion,  the  introduction  of  Christianity  and  the  dawn 
of  security  attained  by  a  society  inclining  to  peace, 
gave  birth  to  a  kind  of  literature ;  and  we  meet  with 
the  venerable  Bede,  and  later  on,  Alcuin,  John  Scotus 
Erigena,  and  some  others,  commentators,  translators, 
teachers  of  barbarians,  who  tried  not  to  originate  but 
to  compile,  to  pick  out  and  explain  from  the  great  Greek 
and  Latin  encyclopaedia  something  which  might  suit 
the  men  of  their  time.  But  the  wars  with  the  Danes 
came  and  crushed  this  humble  plant,  which,  if  left  to 
itself,  would  have  come  to  nothing.1  When  Alfred2 
the  Deliverer  became  king,  "  there  were  very  few 
ecclesiastics,"  he  says,  "on  this  side  of  the  Humber, 
who  could  understand  in  English  their  own  Latin 
prayers,  or  translate  any  Latin  writing  into  English. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  Humber  I  think  there  were 
scarce  any ;  there  were  so  few  that,  in  truth,  I  cannot 
remember  a  single  man  south  of  the  Thames,  when  I 
took  the  kingdom,  who  was  capable  of  it."  He  tried, 
like  Charlemagne,  to  instruct  his  people,  and  turned 
into  Saxon  for  their  use  several  works,  above  all  some 
moral  books,  as  the  de  Consolatione  of  Boethius;  but 
this  very  translation  bears  witness  to  the  barbarism  of 
his  audience.  He  adapts  the  text  in  order  to  bring  it 
down  to  their  intelligence ;  the  pretty  verses  of  Boethius, 
somewhat  pretentious,  laboured,  elegant,  crowded  with 
classical  allusions  of  a  refined  and  compact  style  worthy 

1  They  themselves  feel  their  impotence  and  decrepitude.     Bede, 
dividing  the  history  of  the  world  into  six  periods,  says  that  the  fifth, 
which  stretches  from  the  return  out  of  Babylon  to  the  birth  of  Christ, 
is  the  senile  period  ;  the  sixth  is  the  present,  cclas  decrcpiia,  totius  morie 
vzculi  consummanda.  ^ 

2  Died  in  901  ;  Adhelm  died   709,  Bede  died  735,  Alcuin  lived 
under  Charlemagne,  Erigena  under  Charles  the  Bald  (843-877). 


84 


THE  SOURCE. 


BOOK  I. 


of  Seneca,  become  an  artless,  long  drawn  out  and  yet 
desultory  prose,  like  a  nurse's  fairy  tale,  explaining 
everything,  recommencing  and  breaking  off  its  phrases, 
making  ten  turns  about  a  single  detail ;  so  low  was  it 
necessary  to  stoop  to  the  level  of  this  new  intelligence, 
which  had  never  thought  or  known  anything.  Here 
follows  the  latin  of  Boethius,  so  affected,  so  pretty,  with 
the  English  translation  affixed : — 


"  Quondam  funera  conjugis 
Vates  Threicius  gemens, 
Postquam  flebilibus  modis 
Silvas  currere,  mobiles 
Amnes  stare  coegerat, 
Junxitque  intrepidum  latus 
Ssevis  cerva  leonibus, 
Nee  visum  timuit  lepus 
Jam  cantu  placidum  canem  ; 
Cum  flagrautior  intima 
Fervor  pectoris  ureret, 
Nee  qui  cuncta  subegerant 
Mulcerent  dominum  modi ; 
Immites  superos  querens, 
Infernas  adiit  domos. 
Til  it;  Manila  sonantibus 
Chordis  carmina  temperans, 
Quidquid  praecipuis  Deae 
Matris  fontibus  hauserat, 
Quod  luctus  dabat  irapotens, 
Quod  luctum  geminans  ainor, 
Deflet  Tartara  commovens, 
Et  dulci  veuiarn  prece 
Umbrarum  dominos  rogat. 
Stupet  tergeminus  novo  " 
Captus  carmine  janitor ; 


"  It  happened  formerly  that 
there  was  a  harper  in  the  country 
called  Thrace,  which  was  in 
Greece.  The  harper  was  incon- 
ceivably good.  His  name  was 
Orpheus.  He  had  a  very  excel- 
lent wife,  called  Eurydice.  Then 
began  men  to  say  concerning  the 
harper,  that  he  could  harp  so  that 
the  wood  moved,  and  the  stones 
stirred  themselves  at  the  sound, 
and  wild  beasts  would  run  there- 
to, and  stand  as  if  they  were  tame  ; 
so  still,  that  though  men  or  hounds 
pursued  them,  they  shunned  them 
not.  Then  said  they,  that  the 
harper's  wife  should  die,  and  her 
soul  should  be  led  to  hell.  Then 
should  the  harper  become  so  sor- 
rowful that  he  could  not  remain 
among  the  men,  but  frequented 
the  wood,  and  sat  on  the  moun- 
tains, both  day  aud  night,  weeping 
and  harping,  so  that  the  woods 
shook,  and  the  rivers  stood  still, 
and  no  hart  shunned  any  lion,  nor 


CHAP.  I. 


THE  SAXONS. 


85 


Quse  sontes  agitant  metu         hare  any  hound ;   nor  did  cattle 
Ultrices  scelerum  Deae  know  any  hatred,  or  any  fear  of 

Jam  mcestae  lacrymis  madent.    others,  for   the  pleasure  of  the 


Non  Ixionium  caput 
Velox  prsecipitat  rota, 
Et  longa  site  perditus 
Spernit  flumina  Tantalus. 
Vultur  dum  satur  est  modis 
Non  traxit  Tityi  jecur. 
Tandem,  vincimur,  arbiter 
Umbrarum  miserans  ait. 
Donemus  com  item  viro, 
Emptam  carmine  conjugem. 
Sed  lex  dona  coerceat, 
Nee,  dum  Tartara  liquerit, 
Fas  sit  lumina  flectere. 
Quis  legem  det  amantibus  ! 
Major  lex  fit  amor  sibi. 
Heu  !  noctis  prope  terminos 
Orpheus  Eurydicem  suam 
Vidit,  perdidit,  occidit. 
Vos  haec  fabula  respicit, 
Quicunque  in  superum  diem 
Mentem  ducere  quseritis. 


sound.  Then  it  seemed  to  the 
harper  that  nothing  in  this  world 
pleased  him.  Then  thought  he 
that  he  would  seek  the  gods  of 
hell,  and  endeavour  to  allure  them 
with  his  harp,  and  pray  that  they 
would  give  him  back  his  wife. 
When  he  came  thither,  then 
should  there  come  towards  him 
the  dog  of  hell,  whose  name  was 
Cerberus, — he  should  have  three 
heads, — and  began  to  wag  his  tail, 
and  play  with  him  for  his  harping. 
Then  was  there  also  a  very  hor- 
rible gatekeeper,  whose  name 
should  be  Charon.  He  had  also 
three  heads,  and  he  was  very  old. 
Then  began  the  harper  to  beseech 
him  that  he  would  protect  him 
while  he  was  there,  and  bring  him 
thence  again  safe.  Then  did  he 


Nam  qui  tartareum  in  specus  promise  that  to  him,  because  he 


Victus  lumina  flexerit, 
Quidquid  prsecipuum  trahit 
Perdit,  dum  videt  inferos." 
Book  m.  Metre  12. 


was  desirous  of  the  unaccustomed 
sound.  Then  went  he  farther 
until  he  met  the  fierce  goddesses, 
whom  the  common  people  call 
Parcse,  of  whom  they  say,  that 

they  know  no  respect  for  any  man,  but  punish  every  man  accord- 
ing to  his  deeds  ;  and  of  whom  they  say,  that  they  control  every 
man's  fortune.  Then  began  he  to  implore  their  mercy.  Then 
began  they  to  weep  with  him.  Then  went  he  farther,  and  all 
the  inhabitants  of  hell  ran  towards  him,  and  led  him  to  their 


86  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

king  :  and  all  began  to  speak  with  him,  and  to  pray  that  which 
he  prayed.  And  the  restless  wheel  which  Ixion,  the  king  of  the 
Lapithae,  was  bound  to  for  his  guilt,  that  stood  still  for  his 
harping.  And  Tantalus  the  king,  who  in  this  world  was  im- 
moderately greedy,  and  whom  that  same  vice  of  greediness 
followed  there,  he  became  quiet.  And  the  vulture  should  cease, 
so  that  he  tore  not  the  liver  of  Tityus  the  king,  which  before 
therewith  tormented  him.  And  all  the  punishments  of  the 
inhabitants  of  hell  were  suspended,  whilst  he  harped  before  the 
king.  When  he  long  and  long  had  harped,  then  spoke  the  king 
of  the  inhabitants  of  hell,  and  said,  Let  us  give  the  man  his 
wife,  for  he  has  earned  her  by  his  harping.  He  then  commanded 
him  that  he  should  well  observe  that  he  never  looked  backwards 
after  he  departed  thence ;  and  said,  if  he  looked  backwards,  that 
he  should  lose  the  woman.  But  men  can  with  great  difficulty, 
if  at  all,  restrain  love  !  Wellaway  !  What !  Orpheus  then 
led  his  wife  with  him  till  he  came  to  the  boundary  of  light  and 
darkness.  Then  went  his  wife  after  him.  When  he  came  forth 
into  the  light,  then  looked  he  behind  his  back  towards  the 
woman.  Then  was  she  immediately  lost  to  him.  This  fable 
teaches  every  man  who  desires  to  fly  the  darkness  of  hell,  and 
to  come  to  the  light  of  the  true  good,  that  he  look  not  about 
him  to  his  old  vices,  so  that  he  practise  them  again  as  fully  as 
he  did  before.  For  whosoever  with  full  will  turns  his  mind  to 
the  vices  which  he  had  before  forsaken,  and  practises  them,  and 
they  then  fully  please  him,  and  he  never  thinks  of  forsaking 
them ;  then  loses  he  all  his  former  good  unless  he  again  amend 
it."1 

A  man  speaks  thus  when  he  wishes  to  impress  upon 
the  mind  of  his  hearers  an  idea  which  is  not  clear  to 
them.  Boethius  had  for  his  audience  senators,  men  of 
culture,  who  understood  as  well  as  we  the  slightest 
mythological  allusion.  Alfred  is  obliged  to  take  them 

1  Fox's  Alfreds  Boethius,  chap.  35,  §  6,  1864. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  87 

up  and  develop  them,  like  a  father  or  a  master,  who 
draws  his  little  boy  between  his  knees,  and  relates  to 
him  names,  qualities,  crimes  and  their  punishments, 
which  the  Latin  only  hints  at.  But  the  ignorance  is 
such  that  the  teacher  himself  needs  correction.  He 
takes  the  Parcse  for  the  Erinyes,  and  gives  Charon 
three  heads  like  Cerberus.  There  is  no  adornment  in 
his  version ;  no  delicacy  as  in  the  original.  Alfred  has 
hard  work  to  make  himself  understood.  What,  for 
instance,  becomes  of  the  noble  Platonic  moral,  the  apt 
interpretation  after  the  style  of  lamblichus  and  Por- 
phyry? It  is  altogether  dulled.  He  has  to  call 
everything  by  its  name,  and  turn  the  eyes  of  his  people 
to  tangible  and  visible  things.  It  is  a  sermon  suited 
to  his  audience  of  Thanes  ;  the  Danes  whom  he  had 
converted  by  the  sword  needed  a  clear  moral.  If  he 
had  translated  for  them  exactly  the  last  words  of  Boe- 
thius,  they  would  have  opened  wide  their  big  stupid 
eyes  and  fallen  asleep. 

For  the  whole  talent  of  an  uncultivated  mind  lies  in 
the  force  and  oneness  of  its  sensations.  Beyond  that  it 
is  powerless.  The  art  of  thinking  and  reasoning  lies 
above  it.  These  men  lost  all  genius  when  they  lost  their 
fever-heat.  They  lisped  awkwardly  and  heavily  dry 
chronicles,  a  sort  of  historical  almanacks.  You  might 
think  them  peasants,  who,  returning  from  their  toil,  came 
and  scribbled  with  chalk  on  a  smoky  table  the  date  of  a 
year  of  scarcity,  the  price  of  corn,  the  changes  in  the 
weather,  a  death.  Even  so,  side  by  side  with  the  meagre 
Bible  chronicles,  which  set  down  the  successions  of  kings, 
and  of  Jewish  massacres,  are  exhibited  the  exaltation  of 
the  psalms  and  the  transports  of  prophecy.  The  same 
lyric  poet  can  be  alternately  a  brute  and  a  genius,  because 


88  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i 

his  genius  conies  and  goes  like  a  disease,  and  instead  of 
having  it  he  simply  is  ruled  by  it. 

"A.  D.  611.  This  year  Cynegils  succeeded  to  the  government 
in  Wessex,  and  held  it  one-and-thirty  winters.  Cynegils  was 
the  son  of  Ceol,  Ceol  of  Cutha,  Cutha  of  Cynric. 

"614.  This  year  Cynegils  and  Cnichelm  fought  at  Barapton, 
and  slew  two  thousand  and  forty-six  of  the  Welsh. 

"  678.  This  year  appeared  the  comet-star  in  August,  and 
shone  every  morning  during  three  months  like  a  sunbeam. 
Bishop  Wilfrid  being  driven  from  his  bishopric  by  King  Everth, 
two  bishops  were  consecrated  in  his  stead. 

"  901.  This  year  died  Alfred,  the  son  of  Ethelwulf,  six  nights 
before  the  mass  of  All  Saints.  He  was  king  over  all  the  English 
nation,  except  that  part  that  was  under  the  power  of  the  Danes. 
He  held  the  government  one  year  and  a  half  less  than  thirty 
winters ;  and  then  Edward  his  son  took  to  the  government. 

"902.  This  year  there  was  the  great  fight  at  the  Holme,, 
between  the  men  of  Kent  and  the  Danes. 

"  1077.  This  year  were  reconciled  the  King  of  the  Franks, 
and  William,  King  of  England.  But  it  continued  only  a  little 
while.  This  year  was  London  burned,  one  night  before  the 
Assumption  of  St.  Mary,  so  terribly  as  it  never  was  before  since 
it  was  built."1 

It  is  thus  the  poor  monks  speak,  with  monotonous 
dryness,  who  after  Alfred's  time  gather  up  and  take  note 
of  great  visible  events ;  sparsely  scattered  we  find  a  few 
moral  reflections,  a  passionate  emotion,  nothing  more. 
In  the  tenth  century  we  see  King  Edgar  give  a  manor 
to  a  bishop,  on  condition  that  he  will  put  into  Saxon 
the  monastic  regulation  written  in  Latin  by  Saint  Bene- 
dict. Alfred  himself  was  almost  the  last  man  of  culture ; 
he,  like  Charlemagne,  became  so  only  by  dint  of  deter- 

1  All  these  extracts  are  taken  from  Ingrain's  Saxon  Chronicle,  1823. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  89 

mination  and  patience.  In  vain  the  great  spirits  of  this 
age  endeavour  to  link  themselves  to  the  relics  of  the  fine, 
ancient  civilisation,  and  to  raise  themselves  above  the 
chaotic  and  muddy  ignorance  in  which  the  others 
flounder.  They  rise  almost  alone,  and  on  their  death 
the  rest  sink  again  into  the  mire.  It  is  the  human 
beast  that  remains  master ;  the  mind  cannot  find  a  place 
amidst  the  outbursts  and  the  desires  of  the  flesh,  gluttony 
and  brute  force.  Even  in  the  little  circle  where  he 
moves,  his  labour  comes  to  nought.  The  model  which 
he  proposed  to  himself  oppresses  and  enchains  him  in  a 
cramping  imitation ;  he  aspires  but  to  be  a  good  copyist ; 
he  produces  a  gathering  of  centos  which  he  calls  Latin 
verses ;  he  applies  himself  to  the  discovery  of  expres- 
sions, sanctioned  by  good  models;  he  succeeds  only  in 
elaborating  an  emphatic,  spoiled  Latin,  bristling  with 
incongruities.  In  place  of  ideas,  the  most  profound 
amongst  them  serve  up  the  defunct  doctrines  of  de- 
funct authors.  They  compile  religious  manuals  and 
philosophical  manuals  from  the  Fathers.  Erigena,  the 
most  learned,  goes  to  the  extent  of  reproducing  the  old 
complicated  dreams  of  Alexandrian  metaphysics.  How 
far  these  speculations  and  reminiscences  soar  above  the 
barbarous  crowd  which  howls  and  bustles  in  the  depths 
below,  no  words  can  express.  There  was  a  certain  king 
of  Kent  in  the  seventh  century  who  could  not  write. 
Imagine  bachelors  of  theology  discussing  before  an  audi- 
ence of  waggoners,  not  Parisian  waggoners,  but  such  as 
survive  in  Auvergne  or  in  the  Vosges.  Among  these 
clerks,  who  think  like  studious  scholars  in  accordance 
with  their  favourite  authors,  and  are  doubly  separated 
from  the  world  as  scholars  and  monks,  Alfred  alone,  by 
his  position  as  a  layman  and  a  practical  man,  descends  in 


90  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

his  Saxon  translations  and  his  Saxon  verses  to  the  com- 
mon level ;  and  we  have  seen  that  his  effort,  like  that  of 
Charlemagne,  was  fruitless.  There  was  an  impassable 
wall  between  the  old  learned  literature  and  the  present 
chaotic  barbarism.  Incapable,  yet  compelled,  to  fit  into 
the  ancient  mould,  they  gave  it  a  twist.  Unable  to 
reproduce  ideas,  they  reproduced  a  metre.  They  tried  to 
eclipse  their  rivals  in  versification  by  the  refinement  of 
their  composition,  and  the  prestige  of  a  difficulty  over- 
come. So,  in  our  own  colleges,  the  good  scholars  imitate 
the  clever  divisions  and  symmetry  of  Claudian  rather 
than  the  ease  and  variety  of  Virgil.  They  put  their  feet 
in  irons,  and  showed  their  smartness  by  running  in 
shackles ;  they  weighted  themselves  with  rules  of  modern 
rhyme  and  rules  of  ancient  metre ;  they  added  the  neces- 
sity of  beginning  each  verse  with  the  same  letter  that 
began  the  last.  A  few,  like  Adhelm,  wrote  square 
acrostics,  in  which  the  first  line,  repeated  at  the  end, 
was  found  also  to  the  left  and  right  of  the  piece.  Thus 
made  up  of  the  first  and  last  letters  of  each  verse,  it 
forms  a  border  to  the  whole  piece,  and  the  morsel  of 
verse  is  like  a  piece  of  tapestry.  Strange  literary  tricks, 
which  changed  the  poet  into  an  artisan.  They  bear 
witness  to  the  difficulties  which  then  impeded  culture 
and  nature,  and  spoiled  at  once  the  Latin  form  and  the 
Saxon  genius. 

Beyond  this  barrier,  which  drew  an  impassable  line 
between  civilisation  and  barbarism,  there  was  another, 
no  less  impassable,  between  the  Latin  and  Saxon  genius. 
The  strong  German  imagination,  in  which  glowing  and 
obscure  visions  suddenly  meet  and  abruptly  overflow,  was 
in  contrast  with  the  reasoning  spirit,  in  which  ideas 
gather  and  are  developed  only  in  a  regular  order;  so 


CHAP.  i.  THE  SAXONS.  91 

that  if  the  barbarian,  in  his  classical  attempts,  retained 
any  part  of  his  primitive  instincts,  he  succeeded  only  in 
producing  a  grotesque  and  frightful  monster.  One  of 
them  this  very  Adhelm,  a  relative  of  King  Ina,  who  sang 
on  the  town-bridge  profane  and  sacred  hymns  alternately, 
too  much  imbued  with  Saxon  poesy,  simply  to  imitate 
the  antique  models,  adorned  his  Latin  prose  and  verse 
with  all  the  "English  magnificence."1  You  might  com- 
pare him.  to  a  barbarian  who  seizes  a  flute  from  the 
skilled  hands  of  a  player  of  Augustus'  court,  in  order  to 
blow  on  it  with  inflated  lungs,  as  if  it  were  the  bellow- 
ing horn  of  an  aurochs.  The  sober  speech  of  the  Roman 
orators  and  senators  becomes  in  his  hands  full  of  exag- 
gerated and  incoherent  images;  he  violently  connects 
words,  uniting  them  in  a  sudden  and  extravagant 
manner;  he  heaps  up  his  colours,  and  utters  extra- 
ordinary and  unintelligible  nonsense,  like  that  of  the 
later  Skalds ;  in  short,  lie  is  a  latinised  Skald,  dragging 
into  his  new  tongue  the  ornaments  of  Scandinavian 
poetry,  such  as  alliteration,  by  dint  of  which  he  con- 
gregates in  one  of  his  epistles  fifteen  consecutive  words, 
all  beginning  with  the  same  letter;  and  in  order  to 
make  up  his  fifteen,  he  introduces  a  barbarous  Grsecism 
amongst  the  Latin  words.2  Amongst  the  others,  the' 
writers  of  legends,  you  will  meet  many  times  with 
deformation  of  Latin,  distorted  by  the  outburst  of  a  too 
vivid  imagination  ;  it  breaks  out  even  in  their  scholastic 
and  scientific  writing.  Here  is  part  of  a  dialogue  be- 
tween Alcuin  and  prince  Pepin,  a  son  of  Charlemagne, 

1  William  of  Malmesbury's  expression. 

8  Primitus  (pantorum  procerum  prsetorumque  pio  potissimum  pater- 
noque  praesertim  privilegio)  panegyricum  poemataque  passim  prosatori 
sub  polo  promnlgantes,  stridula  vocum  symphonia  ac  melodi-e  cantile, 
jweque  carmine  modulaturi 


92  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

and  he  uses  like  formulas  the  little  poetic  and  bold 
phrases  which  abound  in  the  national  poetry.  "What 
is  winter  ?  the  banishment  of  summer.  What  is  spring  ? 
the  painter  of  the  earth.  What  is  the  year  ?  the  world's 
chariot.  What  is  the  sun  ?  the  splendour  of  the  world, 
the  beauty  of  heaven,  the  grace  of  nature,  the  honour  of 
day,  the  distributor  of  the  hours.  What  is  the  sea  ? 
the  path  of  audacity,  the  boundary  of  the  earth,  the  re- 
ceptacle of  the  rivers,  the  fountain  of  showers."  More, 
he  ends  his  instructions  with  enigmas,  in  the  spirit  of 
the  Skalds,  such  as  we  still  find  in  the  old  manuscripts 
with  the  barbarian  songs.  It  was  the  last  feature  of  the' 
national  genius,  which,  when  it  labours  to  understand  a 
matter,  neglects  dry,  clear,  consecutive  deduction,  to  em- 
ploy grotesque,  remote,  oft  repeated  imagery,  and  replaces 
analysis  by  intuition. 

VIII. 

Such  was  this  race,  the  last  born  of  the  sister  races, 
which,  in  the  decay  of  the  other  two,  the  Latin  and  the 
Greek,  brings  to  the  world  a  new  civilisation,  with  a 
new  character  and  genius.  Inferior  to  these  in  many 
respects,  it  surpasses  them  in  not  a  few.  Amidst  the 
woods  and  mire  and  snows,  under  a  sad,  inclement  sky, 
gross  instincts  have  gained  the  day  during  this  long 
barbarism.  The  German  has  not  acquired  gay  hum- 
our, unreserved  facility,  the  feeling  for  harmonious 
beauty;  his  great  phlegmatic  body  continues  savage 
and  stiff,  greedy  and  brutal;  his  rude  and  unpliable 
mind  is  still  inclined  to  savagery,  and  restive  under 
culture.  Dull  and  congealed,  his  ideas  cannot  expand 
with  facility  and  freedom,  with  a  natural  sequence  and 
an  instinctive  regularity.  But  this  spirit,  void  of  the 


CHAP.  L  THE  SAXONS.  93 

sentiment  of  the  beautiful,  is  all  the  more  apt  for  the 
sentiment  of  the  true.  The  deep  and  incisive  impression 
which  he  receives  from  contact  with  objects,  and  which 
as  yet  he.  can  only  express  by  a  cry,  will  afterwards 
liberate  him  from  the  Latin  rhetoric,  and  will  vent  itself 
on  things  rather  than  on  words.  Moreover,  under  the 
constraint  of  climate  and  solitude,  by  the  habit  of  resist- 
ance and  effort,  his  ideal  is  changed.  Manly  and  moral 
instincts  have  gained  the  empire  over  him  ;  and  amongst 
them  the  need  of  independence,  the  disposition  for  serious 
and  strict  manners,  the  inclination  for  devotion  and 
veneration,  the  worship  of  heroism.  Here  are  the 
foundations  and  the  elements  of  a  civilisation,  slower 
but  sounder,  less  careful  of  what  is  agreeable  and  elegant, 
more  based  on  justice  and  truth.1  Hitherto  at  least  the 
race  is  intact,  intact  in  its  primitive  coarseness;  the 
Koman  cultivation  could  neither  develop  nor  deform 
it.  If  Christianity  took  root,  it  was  owing  to  natural 
affinities,  but  it  produced  no  change  in  the  native 
genius.  Now  approaches  a  new  conquest,  which  is  to 
bring  this  time  men,  as  well  as  ideas.  The  Saxons, 
meanwhile,  after  the  wont  of  German  races,  vigorous 
and  fertile,  have  within  the  past  six  centuries  multiplied 
enormously.  They  were  now  about  two  millions,  and 
the  Norman  army  numbered  sixty  thousand.2  In  vain 

1  In  Iceland,  the  country  of  the  fiercest  sea-kings,  crimes  are  un- 
known ;  prisons  have  been  turned  to  other  uses  ;  fines  are  the  only 
punishment. 

2  Following  Doomsday  Book,  Mr.  Turner  reckons  at  three  hundred 
thousand  the  heads  of  families  mentioned.     If  each  family  consisted  of 
five  persons,  that  would  make  one  million  five  hundred  thousand  people. 
He  adds  five  hundred  thousand   for  the  four  northern  counties,  for 
London  and  several  large  towns,  for  the  monks  and  provincial  clergy 
not  enumerated.  .  .  .  We  must  accept  these  figures  with  caution.     Still 


$4  THE  SOURCE.  UooK  t 

i 

these  Normans  become  transformed,  gallicised  ;  by  their 
origin,  and  substantially  in  themselves  they  are  still  the 
relatives  of  those  whom  they  conquered.  In  vain  they 
imported  their  manners  and  their  poesy,  and  introduced 
into  the  language  a  third  part  of  its  words ;  this  lan- 
guage continues  altogether  German  in  element  and  in 
substance.1  Though  the  grammar  changed,  it  changed 
integrally,  by  an  internal  action,  in  the  same  sense  as 
its  continental  cognates.  At  the  end  of  three  hundred 
years  the  conquerors  themselves  were  conquered ;  their 
speech  became  English;  and  owing  to  frequent  inter- 
marriage, the  English  blood  ended  by  gaining  the  pre- 
dominance over  the  Norman  blood  in  their  veins.  The 
race  finally  remains  Saxon.  If  the  old  poetic  genius 
disappears  after  the  Conquest,  it  is  as  a  river  disappears, 
and  flows  for  a  while  underground.  In  five  centuries 
it  will  emerge  once  more.1 

they  agree  with  those  of  Mackintosh,  George  Chalmers,  and  several 
others.     Many  facts  show  that  the  Saxon  population  was  very  numerous, 
and  quite  out  of  proportion  to  the  Norman  population. 
1  Warton,  History  of  English  Poetry,  1840,  3  vols.  preface. 


CHAP.  IL  THE  NORMANS.  95 


CHAPTEE  II. 

Cfje  liormana. 

I. 

A  CENTURY  and  a  half  had  passed  on  the  Continent 
since,  amid  the  universal  decay  and  dissolution,  a  new 
society  had  been  formed,  and  new  men  had  risen  up. 
Brave  men  had  at  length  made  a  stand  against  the 
Norsemen  and  the  robbers.  They  had  planted  their 
feet  in  the  soil,  and  the  moving  chaos  of  the  general 
subsidence  had  become  fixed  by  the  effort  of  their  great 
hearts  and  of  their  arms.  At  the  mouths  of  the  rivers, 
in  the  defiles  of  the  mountains,  on  the  margin  of  the 
waste  borders,  at  all  perilous  passes,  they  had  built  their 
forts,  each  for  himself,  each  on  his  own  land,  each  with 
his  faithful  band;  and  they  had  lived  like  a  scattered 
but  watchful  army,  encamped  and  confederate  in  their 
castles,  sword  in  hand,  in  front  of  the  enemy.  Beneath 
this  discipline  a  formidable  people  had  been  formed, 
fierce  hearts  in  strong  bodies,1  intolerant  of  restraint, 

1  See,  amidst  other  delineations  of  their  manners,  the  first  accounts 
of  the  first  Crusade.  Godfrey  clove  a  Saracen  down  to  his  waist. — In 
Palestine,  a  widow  was  compelled,  up  to  the  age  of  sixty,  to  marry  again, 
1  >ecause  no  lief  could  remain  without  a  defender. — A  Spanish  leader  said 
fo  his  exhausted  soldiers  after  a  battle,  "  You  are  too  weary  and  too 
much  wounded,  but  come  and  fight  with  me  against  this  other  band  ; 
the  fresh  wounds  which  we  shall  receive  will  make  us  forget  those  which 
we  have."  At  this  time,  says  the  General  Chronicle  of  Spain,  kings 
counts,  and  nobles,  and  all  the  knights,  that  they  might  be  ever  ready, 
kept  their  horses  in  the  chamber  where  they  slept  with  their  wives. 


96  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i 

longing  for  violent  deeds,  born  for  constant  warfare 
because  steeped  in  permanent  warfare,  heroes  and  rob- 
bers, who,  as  an  escape  from  their  solitude,  plunged 
into  adventures,  and  went,  that  they  might  conquer 
a  country  or  win  Paradise,  to  Sicily,  to  Portugal,  to 
Spain,  to  Livonia,  to  Palestine,  to  England. 

II. 

On  the  2  7th  of  September  1 0  6  6,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Somme,  there  was  a  great  sight  to  be  seen :  four 
hundred  large  sailing  vessels,  more  than  a  thousand 
transports,  and  sixty  thousand  men,  were  on  the  point 
of  embarking.1  The  sun  .shone  splendidly  after  long 
rain ;  trumpets  sounded,  the  cries  of  this  armed  mul- 
titude rose  to  heaven ;  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  on 
the  shore,  in  the  wide-spreading  river  on  the  sea  which 
opens  out  thence  broad  and  shining,  masts  and  sails 
extended  like  a  forest;  the  enormous  fleet  set  out 
wafted  by  the  south  wind.2  The  people  which  it 
carried  were  said  to  have  come  from  Norway,  and  they 
might  have  been  taken  for  kinsmen  of  the  Saxons,  with 
whom  they  were  to  fight;  but  there  were  with  them 
a  multitude  of  adventurers,  crowding  from  all  quarters, 
far  and  near,  from  north  and  south,  from  Maine  and 
Anjou,  from  Poitou  and  Brittany,  from  Ile-de-France 
and  Flanders,  from  Aquitaine  and  Burgundy ; s  and,  in 
short,  the  expedition  itself  was  French. 

1  For  difference  in  numbers  of  the  fleet  and  men,  see  Freeman,  Hist, 
of  the  Norm.  Cong.,  3  vols.  1867,  iii.  381,  387.— TR. 

*  For  all  the  details,  see  Anglo-Norman  Chronicles,  iii.  4,  as  quoted 
by  Aug.  Thierry.  I  have  myself  seen  the  locality  and  the  country. 

3  Of  three  columns  of  attack  at  Hastings,  two  were  composed  of 
auxiliaries.  Moreover,  the  chroniclers  are  not  at  fault  upon  this  critical 
point ;  they  agree  in  stating  that  England  was  conquered  by  French- 
men. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  97 

How  comes  it  that,  having  kept  its  name,  it  had 
changed  its  nature  ?  and  what  series  of  renovations 
had  made  a  Latin  out  of  a  German  people  ?  The 
reason  is  that  this  people,  when  they  came  to  Neustria, 
were  neither  a  national  body,  nor  a  pure  race.  They 
were  but  a  band ;  and  as  such,  marrying  the  women  of 
the  country,  they  introduced  foreign  blood  into  their 
children.  They  were  a  Scandinavian  band,  but  swelled 
by  all  the  bold  knaves  and  all  the  wretched  desperadoes 
who  wandered  about  the  conquered  country:1  and  as 
such  they  received  foreign  blood  into  their  veins. 
Moreover,  if  the  nomadic  band  was  mixed,  the  settled 
band  was  much  more  so ;  and  peace  by  its  transfusions, 
like  war  by  its  recruits,  had  changed  the  character  of 
the  primitive  blood.  When  Hollo,  having  divided  the 
land  amongst  his  followers,  hung  the  thieves  and  their 
abettors,  people  from  every  country  gathered  to  him. 
Security,  good  stern  justice,  were  so  rare,  that  they 
were  enough  to  re-people  a  land.2  He  invited  strangers, 
say  the  old  writers,  "and  made  one  people  out  of  so 
many  folk  of  different  natures."  This  assemblage  of 
barbarians,  refugees,  robbers,  immigrants,  spoke  Romance 
or  French  so  quickly,  that  the  second  Duke,  wishing  to 
have  his  son  taught  Danish,  had  to  send  him  to  Bayeux, 
where  it  was  still  spoken.  The  great  masses  always 
form  the  race  in  the  end,  and  generally  the  genius  and 
language.  Thus  this  people,  so  transformed,  quickly 
became  polished ;  the  composite  race  showed  itself  of  a 

1  It  was  a  Rouen  fisherman,  a  soldier  of  Hollo,  who  killed  the  Duke 
of  France  at  the  mouth  of  the  Eure.  Hastings,  the  famous  sea-king, 
was  a  labourer's  son  from  the  neighbourhood  of  Troyes. 

a  "  In  the  tenth  century,"  says  Stendhal,  "a  man  wished  for  two 
things  :  Isf,  not  to  be  slain  ;  2d,  to  have  a  good  leather  coat."  See 
Fontenelle's  Chronicle. 

VOL.  L  H 


98  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

ready  genius,  far  more  wary  than  the  Saxons  across  the 
Channel,  closely  resembling  their  neighbours  of  Picardy, 
Champagne,  and  Ile-de-France.  "The  Saxons,"  says 
an  old  writer,1  "  vied  with  each  other  in  their  drinking 
feats,  and  wasted  their  income  by  day  and  night  in  feast- 
ing, whilst  they  lived  in  wretched  hovels ;  the  French 
and  Normans,  on  the  other  hand,  living  inexpensively 
in  their  fine  large  houses,  were  besides  refined  in  their 
food  and  studiously  careful  in  their  dress."  The  former, 
still  weighted  by  the  German  phlegm,  were  gluttons 
and  drunkards,  now  and  then  aroused  by  poetical  en- 
thusiasm ;  the  latter,  made  sprightlier  by  their  trans- 
plantation and  their  alloy,  felt  the  cravings  of  the  mind 
already  making  themselves  manifest.  "  You  might  see 
amongst  them  churches  in  every  village,  and  monas- 
teries in  the  cities,  towering  on  high,  and  built  in  a 
style  unknown  before,"  first  in  Normandy,  and  later  in 
England.2  Taste  had  come  to  them  at  once — that  is, 
the  desire  to  please  the  eye,  and  to  express  a  thought 
by  outward  representation,  which  was  quite  a  new  idea  : 
the  circular  arch  was  raised  on  one  or  on  a  cluster  of 
columns;  elegant  mouldings  were  placed  about  the 
windows ;  the  rose  window  made  its  appearance,  simple 
yet,  like  the  flower  which  gives  it  its  name  "  rose  des 
buissons ;"  and  the  Norman  style  unfolded  itself,  original 
yet  proportioned  between  the  Gothic,  whose  richness  it 
foreshadowed,  and  the  Eomauce,  whose  solidity  it  recalled. 
"With  taste,  just  as  natural  and  just  as  quickly,  was 
developed  the  spirit  of  inquiry.  Nations  are  like 

1  William  of  Malmesbury. 

8  Churches  in  London,  Sarum,  Norwich,  Durham,  Chichester,  Peter- 
borough, Rochester,  Hereford,  Gloucester,  Oxford,  etc. — William  of 
Malmesbury. 


CHAP.  li.  TSE  NORMANS.  99 

children;  with  some  the  tongue  is  readily  loosened, 
and  they  comprehend  at  once ;  with  others  it  is  loosened 
with  difficulty,  and  they  are  slow  of  comprehension. 
The  men  we  are  here  speaking  of  had  educated  them- 
selves nimbly,  as  Frenchmen  do.  They  were  the  first 
in  France  who  unravelled  the  language,  regulating  it 
and  writing  it  so  well,  that  to  this  day  we  understand 
their  codes  and  their  poems.  In  a  century  and  a  half 
they  were  so  far  cultivated  as  to  find  the  Saxons 
"unlettered  and  rude."1  That  was  the  excuse  they 
made  for  banishing  them  from  the  abbeys  and  all 
valuable  ecclesiastical  offices.  And,  in  fact,  this  excuse 
was  rational,  for  they  instinctively  hated  gross  stupidity. 
Between  the  Conquest  and  the  death  of  King  John, 
they  established  five  hundred  and  fifty-seven  schools 
in  England.  Henry  Beauclerk,  son  of  the  Conqueror, 
was  trained  in  the  sciences ;  so  were  Henry  II.  and  his 
three  sons :  Eichard,  the  eldest  of  these,  was  a  poet. 
Lanfranc,  first  Norman  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  a 
subtle  logician,  ably  argued  the  Eeal  Presence ;  Anselm, 
his  successor,  the  first  thinker  of  the  age,  thought  he 
had  discovered  a  new  proof  of  the  existence  of  God, 
and  tried  to  make  religion  philosophical  by  adopting  as 
his  maxim,  "Crede  ut  intelligas."  The  notion  was 
doubtless  grand,  especially  in  the  eleventh  century; 
and  they  could  not  have  gone  more  promptly  to  work. 
Of  course  the  science  I  speak  of  was  but  scholastic, 
and  these  terrible  folios  slay  more  understandings  than 
they  confirm.  But  people  must  begin  as  they  can; 
and  syllogism,  even  in  Latin,  even  in  theology,  is  yet 
an  exercise  of  the  mind  and  a  proof  of  the  understand- 
ing. Among  the  continental  priests  who  settled  in 
1  Ordericus  Vitalis. 


100  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

England,  one  established  a  library;  another,  founder 
of  a  school,  made  the  scholars  perform  the  play  of  Saint 
Catherine ;  a  third  wrote  in  polished  Latin,  "  epigrams 
as  pointed  as  those  of  Martial."  Such  were  the 
recreations  of  an  intelligent  race,  eager  for  ideas,  of 
ready  and  flexible  genius,  whose  clear  thought  was  not 
clouded,  like  that  of  the  Saxon  brain,  by  drunken 
hallucinations,  and  the  vapours  of  a  greedy  and  well- 
filled  stomach.  They  loved  conversations,  tales  of 
adventure.  Side  by  side  with  their  Latin  chroniclers, 
Henry  of  Huntingdon,  William  of  Malmesbury,  thought- 
ful men  already,  who  could  not  only  relate,  but  criticise 
here  and  there,  there  were  rhyming  chronicles  in  the 
vulgar  tongue,  as  those  of  Geoffroy  Gaimar,  Be'noit  de 
Sainte-Maure,  Robert  Wace.  Do  not  imagine  that 
their  verse-writers  were  sterile  of  words  or  lacking  in 
details.  They  were  talkers,  tale-tellers,  speakers  above 
all,  ready  of  tongue,  and  never  stinted  in  speech.  Not 
singers  by  any  means ;  they  speak — this  is  their  strong 
point,  in  their  poems  as  in  their  chronicles.  They 
were  the  earliest  who  wrote  the  Song  of  Roland ;  upon 
this  they  accumulated  a  multitude  of  songs  concerning 
Charlemagne  and  his  peers,  concerning  Arthur  and 
Merlin,  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  King  Horn,  Guy  of 
Warwick,  every  prince  and  every  people.  Their 
minstrels  (trouv&res),  like  their  knights,  draw  in  abund- 
ance from  Welsh,  Franks,  and  Latins,  and  descend  upon 
East  and  West,  in  the  wide  field  of  adventure.  They 
address  themselves  to  a  spirit  of  inquiry,  as  the  Saxons 
to  enthusiasm,  and  dilute  in  their  long,  clear,  and 
flowing  narratives  the  lively  colours  of  German  and 
Breton  traditions;  battles,  surprises,  single  combats, 
embassies,  speeches,  processions,  ceremonies,  huntings, 


CHAP.  n.  THE  NORMANS.  101 

a  variety  of  amusing  events,  employ  their  ready  and 
wandering  imaginations.  At  first,  in  the  Sony  of 
Roland,  it  is  still  kept  in  check;  it  walks  with  long 
strides,  but  only  walks.  Presently  its  wings  have 
grown;  incidents  are  multiplied;  giants  and  monsters 
abound,  the  natural  disappears,  the  song  of  the  jongleur 
grows  a  poem  under  the  hands  of  the  trouv&re ;  he 
would  speak,  like  Nestor  of  old,  five,  even  six  years 
running,  and  not  grow  tired  or  stop.  Forty  thousand 
verses  are  not  too  much  to  satisfy  their  gabble ;  a  facile 
mind,  copious,  inquisitive,  descriptive,  such  is  the 
genius  of  the  race.  The  Gauls,  their  fathers,  used  to 
delay  travellers  on  the  road  to  make  them  tell  their 
stories,  and  boasted,  like  these,  "  of  fighting  well  and 
talking  with  ease." 

With  chivalric  poetry,  they  are  not  wanting  in 
chivalry;  principally,  it  may  be,  because  they  are 
strong,  and  a  strong  man  loves  to  prove  his  strength 
by  knocking  down  his  neighbours;  but  also  from  a 
desire  of  fame,  and  as  a  point  of  honour.  By  this  one 
word  honour  the  whole  spirit  of  warfare  is  changed. 
Saxon  poets  painted  war  as  a  murderous  fury,  as 
a  blind  madness  which  shook  flesh  and  blood,  and 
awakened  the  instincts  of  the  beast  of  prey ;  Norman 
poets  describe  it  as  a  tourney.  The  new  passion  which 
they  introduce  is  that  of  vanity  and  gallantry ;  Guy  of 
Warwick  dismounts  all  the  knights  in  Europe,  in  order 
to  deserve  the  hand  of  the  prude  and  scornful  Felice. 
The  tourney  itself  is  but  a  ceremony,  somewhat  brutal 
I  admit,  since  it  turns  upon  the  breaking  of  arms  and 
limbs,  but  yet  brilliant  and  French.  To  show  skill 
and  courage,  display  the  magnificence  of  dress  and 
armour,  be  applauded  by  and  please  the  ladies, — such 


102  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

feelings  indicate  men  of  greater  sociality,  more  under 
the  influence  of  public  opinion,  less  the  slaves  of  their 
own  passions,  void  both  of  lyric  inspiration  and  savage 
enthusiasm,  gifted  by  a  different  genius,  because  in- 
clined to  other  pleasures. 

Such  were  the  men  who  at  this  moment  were  dis- 
embarking in  England  to  introduce  their  new  manners 
and  a  new  spirit,  French  at  bottom,  in  mind  and  speech, 
though  with  special  and  provincial  features ;  of  all  the 
most  matter-of-fact,  with  an  eye  to  the  main  chance, 
calculating,  having  the  nerve  and  the  dash  of  our  own 
soldiers,  but  with  the  tricks  and  precautions  of  lawyers  , 
heroic  undertakers  of  profitable  enterprises ;  having 
gone  to  Sicily  and  Naples,  and  ready  to  travel  to  Con- 
stantinople or  Antioch,  so  it  be  to  take  a  country  or 
bring  back  money;  subtle  politicians,  accustomed  in 
Sicily  to  hire  themselves  to  the  highest  bidder,  and 
capable  of  doing  a  stroke  of  business  in  the  heat  of  the 
Crusade,  like  Bohe'mond,  who,  before  Antioch,  specu- 
lated on  the  dearth  of  his  Christian  allies,  and  would 
only  open  the  town  to  them  under  condition  of  their 
keeping  it  for  himself;  methodical  and  persevering 
conquerors,  expert  in  administration,  and  fond  of  scrib- 
bling on  paper,  like  this  very  William,  who  was  able 
to  organise  such  an  expedition,  and  such  an  army,  and 
kept  a  written  roll  of  the  same,  and  who  proceeded  to 
register  the  whole  of  England  in  his  Domesday  Book. 
Sixteen  days  after  the  disembarkation,  the  contrast 
between  the  two  nations  was  manifested  at  Hastings 
by  its  visible  effects. 

The  Saxons  "ate  and  drank  the  whole  night.  You 
might  have  seen  them  struggling  much,  and  leaping  and 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  103 

singing,"  with  shouts  of  laughter  and  noisy  joy.1  In  the 
morning  they  packed  behind  their  palisades  the  dense 
masses  of  their  heavy  infantry,  and  with  battle-axe  hung 
round  their  neck  awaited  the  attack.  The  wary  Normans 
weighed  the  chances  of  heaven  and  hell,  and  tried  to 
enlist  God  upon  their  side.  Eobert  Wace,  their  his- 
torian and  compatriot,  is  no  more  troubled  by  poetical 
imagination  than  they  were  by  warlike  inspiration ;  and 
on  the  eve  of  the  battle  his  mind  is  as  prosaic  and  clear 
as  theirs.2  The  same  spirit  showed  itself  in  the  battle. 
They  were  for  the  most  part  bowmen  and  horsemen,  well- 
skilled,  nimble,  and  clever.  Taillefer,  the  jongleur,  who 
asked  for  the  honour  of  striking  the  first  blow,  went 
singing,  like  a  true  French  volunteer,  performing  tricks 
all  the  while.3  Having  arrived  before  the  English,  he 

1  Robert  Wace,  Roman  du  Rou. 
Ibid. 

Et  li  Normanz  et  li  Franceiz  Unt  Normanz  a  pramis  e  voe, 

Tote  nuit  firent  oreisons,  Si  com  li  cler  1'orent  loe, 

Et  furent  en  aflicions.  Ke  k  ce  jor  mez  s'il  veskeient, 

De  lor  pechies  confez  se  firent  Char  ni  saunc  ne  mangereient 

As  proveires  les  regehirent,  Giffrei,  eveske  de  Coustances, 

Et  qui  n'en  out  proveires  prez,  A  plusors  joint  lor  penitances. 

A  son  veizin  se  fist  confez,  Cli  re$ut  li  confessions 

Pour  90  ke  samedi  esteit  Et  dona  li  benei$ons. 
Ke  la  bataille  estre  debveit. 

8  Robert  Wace,  Roman  du  Rou  : 

Taillefer  ki  moult  bien  cantout  Tut  mon  servise  me  debvez, 

Sur  un  roussin  qui  tot  alout  Hui,  si  vos  plaist,  me  le  rendez 

Devant  li  dus  alout  cantant  For  tout  guerredun  vos  requier, 

De  Kalermaine  e  de  Rolant,  Et  si  vos  voil  foment  preier, 

E  d'Oliver  et  des  vassals  Otreiez-mei,  ke  jo  n'i  faille, 

Ki  moururent  &  Roncevals.  Li  primier  colp  de  la  bataille." 

Quant  ils  orent  chevalchie  tant  Et  li  dus  repont :  "  Je  1'otrei." 

K'as  Engleis  vindreiit  aprismant  Et  Taillefer  point  a  desrei ; 

"  Sires  !  dist  Taillefer,  merci !  Devant  toz  li  altres  se  mist, 

Je  vos  ai  languement  servi  Un  Englez  feri,  si  1'ocist. 


104  THE  SOURCE  BOOK  i. 

cast  his  lance  three  times  in  the  air,  then  his  sword,  and 
caught  them  again  by  the  handle ;  and  Harold's  clumsy 
foot-soldiers,  who  only  knew  how  to  cleave  coats  of  mail 
by  blows  from  their  battle-axes,  "were  astonished,  saying 
to  one  another  that  it  was  magic."  As  for  William, 
amongst  a  score  of  prudent  and  cunning  actions,  he  per- 
formed two  well-calculated  ones,  which,  in  this  sore  em- 
barrassment, brought  him  safe  out  of  his  difficulties. 
He  ordered  his  archers  to  shoot  into  the  air ;  the  arrows 
wounded  many  of  the  Saxons  in  the  face,  and  one  of 
them  pierced  Harold  in  the  eye,  After  this  he  simu- 
lated flight ;  the  Saxons,  intoxicated  with  joy  and  wrath, 
quitted  their  entrenchments,  and  exposed  themselves  to 
the  lances  of  his  horsemen.  During  the  remainder  of 
the  contest  they  only  make  a  stand  by  small  companies, 
fight  with  fury,  and  end  by  being  slaughtered.  The 
strong,  mettlesome,  brutal  race  threw  themselves  on  the 
enemy  like  a  savage  bull ;  the  dexterous  Norman  hunt- 
ers wounded  them  adroitly,  knocked  them  down,  and 
placed  them  under  the  yoke. 

III. 

What  then  is  this  French  race,  which  by  arms  and 
letters  makes  such  a  splendid  entrance  upon  the  world, 
and  is  so  manifestly  destined  to  rule,  that  in  the  East, 
for  example,  their  name  of  Franks  will  be  given  to  all 
the  nations  of  the  West  ?  Wherein  consists  this  new 
spirit,  this  precocious  pioneer,  this  key  of  all  middle- 
age  civilisation  ?  There  is  in  every  mind  of  the  kind 

De  BOS  le  pis,  parmie  la  pance,  Poiz  a  crie  :  "  Venez,  venez  I 

Li  fiat  passer  ultre  la  lance,  Ke  fetes-vos  ?  Ferez,  ferez  1 " 

A  terre  estendu  1'ahati.  Done  1'uut  Englez  avirone 

Poiz  trait  1'espee,  altre  ferl  Al  secund  eolp  k'il  ou 


CHAP.  n.  THE  NORMANS.  105 

a  fundamental  activity  which,  when  incessantly  repeated, 
moulds  its  plan,  and  gives  it  its  direction ;  in  town  or 
country,  cultivated  or  not,  in  its  infancy  and  its  age,  it 
spends  its  existence  and  employs  its  energy  in  conceiv- 
ing an  event  or  an  object.  This  is  its  original  and  per- 
petual process ;  and  whether  it  change  its  region,  return, 
advance,  prolong,  or  alter  its  course,  its  whole  motion 
is  but  a  series  of  consecutive  steps ;  so  that  the  least 
alteration  in  the  size,  quickness,  or  precision  of  its 
primitive  stride  transforms  and  regulates  the  whole 
course,  as  in  a  tree  the  structure  of  the  first  shoot 
determines  the  whole  foliage,  and  governs  the  whole 
growth.1  When  the  Frenchman  conceives  an  event 
or  an  object,  he  conceives  quickly  and  distinctly ;  there 
is  no  internal  disturbance,  no  previous  fermentation  of 
confused  and  violent  ideas,  which,  becoming  concentrated 
and  elaborated,  end  in  a  noisy  outbreak.  The  movement 
of  his  intelligence  is  nimble  and  prompt  like  that  of  his 
limbs ;  at  once  and  without  effort  he  seizes  upon  his  idea. 
But  he  seizes  that  alone ;  he  leaves  on  one  side  all  the 
long  entangling  offshoots  whereby  it  is  entwined  and 
twisted  amongst  its  neighbouring  ideas;  he  does  not 
embarrass  himself  with  nor  think  of  them ;  he  detaches, 
plucks,  touches  but  slightly,  and  that  is  all.  He  is 
deprived,  or  if  you  prefer  it,  he  is  exempt  from  those 
sudden  half-visions  which  disturb  a  man,  and  open  up 
to  him  instantaneously  vast  deeps  and  far  perspectives. 
Images  are  excited  by  internal  commotion ;  he,  not  being 
so  moved,  imagines  not.  He  is  only  moved  superficially ; 
he  is  without  large  sympathy;  he  does  not  perceive  an 
object  as  it  is,  complex  and  combined,  but  in  parts,  with 

1  The  idea  of  types  is  applicable  throughout  all  physical  and  moral 
nature. 


106  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

a  discursive  and  superficial  knowledge.  That  is  why 
no  race  in  Europe  is  less  poetical.  Let  us  look  at  their 
epics ;  none  are  more  prosaic.  They  are  not  wanting 
in  number :  The  Song  of  Roland,  Garin  le  Loherain, 
Ogier  le  Danois,1  Bertlie  aux  grands  Pieds.  There  is  a 
library  of  them.  Though  their  manners  are  heroic  and 
their  spirit  fresh,  though  they  have  originality,  and 
deal  with  grand  events,  yet,  spite  of  this,  the  narrative 
is  as  dull  as  that  of  the  babbling  Norman  chroniclers. 
Doubtless  when  Homer  relates  he  is  as  clear  as  they 
are,  and  he  develops  as  they  do :  but  his  magnificent 
titles  of  rosy-fingered  Morn,  the  wide-bosomed  Air,  the 
divine  and  nourishing  Earth,  the  earth-shaking  Ocean, 
come  in  every  instant  and  expand  their  purple  bloom 
over  the  speeches  and  battles,  and  the  grand  abounding 
similes  which  interrupt  the  narrative  tell  of  a  people  more 
inclined  to  enjoy  beauty  than  to  proceed  straight  to  fact. 
But  here  we  have  facts,  always  facts,  nothing  but  facts  ; 
the  Frenchman  wants  to  know  if  the  hero  will  kill  the 
traitor,  the  lover  wed  the  maiden ;  he  must  not  be  delayed 
by  poetry  or  painting.  He  advances  nimbly  to  the  end 
of  the  story,  not  lingering  for  dreams  of  the  heart  or 
wealth  of  landscape.  There  is  no  splendour,  no  colour, 
ill  his  narrative;  his  style  is  quite  bare,  and  without 
figures ;  you  may  read  ten  thousand  verses  in  these  old 
poems  without  meeting  one.  Shall  we  open  the  most 
ancient,  the  most  original,  the  most  eloquent,  at  the 
most  moving  point,  the  Song  of  Roland,  when  Eoland  is 
dying?  The  narrator  is  moved,  and  yet  his  language 
remains  the  same,  smooth,  accentless,  so  penetrated  by 
the  prosaic  spirit,  and  so  void  of  the  poetic !  He  gives 
an  abstract  of  motives,  a  summary  of  events,  a  series 

1  Dawns  is  a  contraction  of  le  d'Ardennois,  from  the  Ardennes. — Tm. 


it.  THE  NORMANS.  107 

of  causes  for  grief,  a  series  of  causes  for  consolation.1 
Nothing  more.  These  men  regard  the  circumstance  or 
the  action  by  itself,  and  adhere  to  this  view.  Their 
idea  remains  exact,  clear,  and  simple,  and  does  not  raise 
up  a  similar  image  to  be  confused  with  the  first,  to 
colour  or  transform  itself.  It  remains  dry ;  they  conceive 

1  Geuiu,  Chanson  de  Roland  : 

Co  sent  Rollans  que  la  mort  le  trespent, 

Devers  la  teste  sur  le  quer  li  descent ; 

Desuz  un  pin  i  est  alet  curant, 

Sur  1'herbe  verte  si  est  culchet  adenz  ; 

Desuz  lui  met  1'espee  et  1'olifan  ; 

Turnat  sa  teste  vers  la  paiene  gent, 

Pour  50  1'at  fait  que  il  voelt  veirement 

Que  Carles  diet  e  trestute  sa  gent, 

Li  gentilz  quens,  qu'il  fut  mort  cunqulrant. 

Cleimet  sa  culpe,  e  menut  e  suvent, 

Pur  ses  pecchez  en  puroffrid  lo  guant. 

Li  quens  Rollans  se  jut  desuz  un  pin, 
Envers  Espaigne  en  ad  turuet  sun  vis, 
De  plusurs  choses  a  remembrer  le  prist. 
De  tantes  terres  cume  li  bers  cunquist, 
De  dulce  France,  des  hunies  de  sun  lign, 
De  Carlemagne  sun  seignor  ki  1'nurrit. 
Ne  poet  muer  n'en  plurt  et  ne  susprit 
Mais  lui  meisme  ne  volt  mettre  en  ubli. 
Cleimet  sa  culpe,  si  priet  Dieu  mercit : 

"  Veire  paterne,  ki  unques  ne  mentin, 
Seint  Lazaron  de  mort  resurrexis, 
Et 'Daniel  des  lions  guaresis, 
Guaris  de  mei  1'arome  de  tuz  perilz, 
Pur  les  pecchez  que  en  ma  vie  fis. " 
Sun  destre  guant  a  Deu  en  puroffrit. 
Seint  Gabriel  de  sa  main  1'ad  pria. 
Desur  sun  bras  teneit  le  chef  enclin, 
Juntes  ses  mains  est  alet  a  sa  fin. 
Deus  i  tramist  sun  angle  cherubin, 
Et  seint  Michel  qu'on  cleimet  del  peril 
Ensemble  ad  els  seint  Gabriel  i  vint^ 
L'anme  del  cunte  portent  en  pareis. 


108  THE  SOUfcCE.  BOOK  i. 

the  divisions  of  the  object  one  by  one, -without  ever 
collecting  them,  as  the  Saxons  would,  in  an  abrupt  im- 
passioned, glowing  semi- vision.  Nothing  is  more  opposed 
to  their  genius  than  the  genuine  songs  and  profound 
hymns,  such  as  the  English  monks  were  singing  beneath 
the  low  vaults  of  their  churches.  They  would  be  dis- 
concerted by  the  unevenness  and  obscurity  of  such  lan- 
guage. They  are  not  capable  of  such  an  access  of 
enthusiasm  and  such  excess  of  emotion.  They  never 
cry  out,  they  speak,  or  rather  they  converse,  and  that  at 
moments  when  the  soul,  overwhelmed  by  its  trouble 
might  be  expected  to  cease  thinking  and  feeling.  Thus 
Amis,  in  a.  mystery-play,  being  leprous,  calmly  requires 
his  friend  Ainille  to  slay  his  two  sons,  in  order  that  their 
blood  may  heal  him  of  his  leprosy ;  and  Amille  replies 
still  more  calmly,1  If  ever  they  try  to  sing,  even  in 
heaven,  "a  roundelay  high  and  clear,"  they  will  produce 
little  rhymed  arguments,  as  dull  as  the  dullest  talk. 

1  Mon  ties  chier  ami  debonnaire, 
Vous  m'avez  une  chose  ditte 
Qui  n'est  pas  a  faire  petite 
Mais  que  Ton  doit  moult  resongnier. 
Et  nonpourquant,  sanz  eslongnier, 
Puisque  garison  autrement 
Ne  povez  avoir  vraiement, 
Pour  vostre  amour  les  occiray, 
Et  le  sang  vous  apporteray. 
Vraiz  Diex,  moult  est  excellent?, 
Et  de  grant  charite  plaine, 
Vostre  bonte  souveraine. 
Car  vostre  grace  presente, 
A  toute  personne  humaine, 
Vraix  Diex,  moult  est  excellent^, 
Pniaqu'elle  a  cuer  et  entente, 
Et  que  a  ce  desir  1'amaine 
Que  de  vous  servir  se  paine. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  109 

Pursue  this  literature  to  its  conclusion ;  regard  it,  like 
that  of  the  Skalds,  at  the  time  of  its  decadence,  when 
its  vices,  being  exaggerated,  display,  like  those  of  the 
Skalds,  only  still  more  strongly  the  kind  of  mind  which 
produced  it.  The  Skalds  fall  off  into  nonsense ;  it  loses 
itself  into  babble  and  platitude.  The  Saxon  could  not 
master  his  craving  for  exaltation ;  the  Frenchman  could 
not  restrain  the  volubility  of  his  tongue.  He  is  too  diffuse 
and  too  clear ;  the  Saxon  is  too  obscure  and  brief.  The 
one  was  excessively  agitated  and  carried  away ;  the  other 
explains  and  develops  without  measure.  From  the 
twelfth  century  the  Gestes  spun  out  degenerate  into 
rhapsodies  and  psalmodies  of  thirty  or  forty  thousand 
verses.  Theology  enters  into  them ;  poetry  becomes  an 
interminable,  intolerable  litany,  where  the  ideas,  ex- 
pounded, developed,  and  repeated  ad  infinitum,  without 
one  outburst  of  emotion  or  one  touch  of  originality,  flow 
like  a  clear  and  insipid  stream,  and  send  off  their  reader, 
by  dint  of  their  monotonous  rhymes,  into  a  comfortable 
slumber.  What  a  deplorable  abundance  of  distinct  and 
facile  ideas  !  We  meet  with  it  again  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  in  the  literary  gossip  which  took  place  at  the 
feet  of  men  of  distinction ;  it  is  the  fault  and  the  talent 
of  the  race.  With  this  involuntary  art  of  perceiving, 
and  isolating  instantaneously  and  clearly  each  part  of 
every  object,  people  can  speak,  even  for  speaking's  sake, 
and  for  ever. 

Such  is  the  primitive  process;  how  will  it  be  con- 
tinued ?  Here  appears  a  new  trait  in  the  French  genius, 
the  most  valuable  of  all.  It  is  necessary  to  compre- 
hension that  the  second  idea  shall  be  contiguous  to  the 
first ;  otherwise  that  genius  is  thrown  out  of  its  course 
and  arrested;  it  cannot  proceed  by  irregular  bounds; 


110  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  I. 

it  must  walk  step  by  step,  on  a  straight  road ;  order  is 
innate  in  it;  without  study,  and  in  the  first  place,  it 
disjoints  and  decomposes  the  object  or  event,  however 
complicated  and  entangled  it  may  be,  and  sets  the 
parts  one  by  one  in  succession  to  each  other,  according 
to  their  natural  connection.  True,  it  is  still  in  a  state 
of  barbarism ;  yet  its  intelligence  is  a  reasoning  faculty, 
which  spreads,  though  unwittingly.  Nothing  is  more 
clear  than  the  style  of  the  old  French  narratives  and  of 
the  earliest  poems:  we  do  not  perceive  that  we  are 
following  a  narrator,  so  easy  is  the  gait,  so  even  the  road 
he  opens  to  us,  so  smoothly  and  gradually  every  idea 
glides  into  the  next ;  and  this  is  why  he  narrates  so  well. 
The  chroniclers  Villehardouin,  Joinville,  Froissart,  the 
fathers  of  prose,  have  an  ease  and  clearness  approached 
by  none,  and  beyond  all,  a  charm,  a  grace,  which  they 
had  not  to  go  out  of  their  way  to  find.  Grace  is  a 
national  possession  in  France,  and  springs  from  the  native 
delicacy  which  has  a  horror  of  incongruities ;  the  instinct 
of  Frenchmen  avoids  violent  shocks  in  works  of  taste 
as  well  as  in  works  of  argument ;  they  desire  that  their 
sentiments  and  ideas  shall  harmonise,  and  not  clash. 
Throughout  they  have  this  measured  spirit,  exquisitely 
refined.1  They  take  care,  on  a  sad  subject,  not  to  push 
emotion  to  its  limits  ;  they  avoid  big  words.  Think 
how  Joinville  relates  in  six  lines  the  death  of  the  poor 
sick  priest  who  wished  to  finish  celebrating  the  mass, 
and  "never  more  did  sing,  and  died."  Open  a  mystery- 
play,  Thtophilus,  or  that  of  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  for 
instance  :  when  they  are  going  to  burn  her  and  her  child, 
she  says  two  short  lines  about  "this  gentle  dew  which  is 
so  pure  an  innocent,"  nothing  more.  Take  a  fabliau, 
1  See  H.  Tajne,  I<a,  Fontaine  and  his  Fables,  p.  15, 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  Ill 

even  a  dramatic  one :  when  the  penitent  knight,  who 
has  undertaken  to  fill  a  barrel  with  his  tears,  dies  in  the 
hermit's  company,  he  asks  from  him  only  one  last  gift : 
"Do  but  embrace  me,  and  then  I'll  die  in  the  arms  of  my 
friend."  Could  a  more  touching  sentiment  be  expressed 
in  more  sober  language  ?  We  must  say  of  their  poetry 
what  is  said  of  certain  pictures :  This  is  made  out  of 
nothing.  Is  there  in  the  world  anything  more  deli- 
cately graceful  than  the  verses  of  Guillaume  de  Lorris  ? 
Allegory  clothes  his  ideas  so  as  to  dim  their  too  great 
brightness;  ideal  figures,  half  transparent,  float  about 
the  lover,  luminous,  yet  in  a  cloud,  and  lead  him  amidst 
all  the  gentle  and  delicate-hued  ideas  to  the  rose,  whose 
"  sweet  odour  embalms  all  the  plain."  This  refinement 
goes  so  far,  that  in  Thibaut  of  Champagne  and  in 
Charles  of  Orleans  it  turns  to  affectation  and  insipidity. 
In  them  all  impressions  grow  more  slender;  the  per- 
fume is  so  weak,  that  one  often  fails  to  catch  it;  on 
their  knees  before  their  lady  they  whisper  their 
waggeries  and  conceits  ;  they  love  politely  and  wittily ; 
they  arrange  ingeniously  in  a  bouquet  their  "painted 
words,"  all  the  flowers  of  "fresh  and  beautiful  lan- 
guage ; "  they  know  how  to  mark  fleeting  ideas  in  their 
flight,  soft  melancholy,  vague  reverie;  they  are  as 
elegant  as  talkative,  and  as  charming  as  the  most 
amiable  abbe's  of  the  eighteenth  century.  This  light- 
ness of  touch  is  proper  to  the  race,  and  appears  as 
plainly  under  the  armour  and  amid  the  massacres  of 
the  middle  ages  as  amid  the  courtsies  and  the  musk- 
scented,  wadded  coats  of  the  last  court.  You  will  find 
it  in  their  colouring  as  in  their  sentiments.  They  are 
not  struck  by  the  magnificence  of  nature,  they  see  only 
her  pretty  side ;  they  paint  the  beauty  of  a  woman  by 


112  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

a  single  feature,  which  is  only  polite,  saying,  "  She  is 
more  gracious  than  the  rose  in  May."  They  do  not 
experience  the  terrible  emotion,  ecstasy,  sudden  oppres- 
sion of  heart  which  is  displayed  in  the  poetry  of 
neighbouring  nations ;  they  say  discreetly,  "  She  began 
to  smile,  which  vastly  became  her."  They  add,  when 
they  are  in  a  descriptive  humour,  "that  she  had  a 
sweet  and  perfumed  breath,"  and  a  body  "white  as 
new-fallen  snow  on  a  branch."  They  do  not  aspire 
higher;  beauty  pleases,  but  does  not  transport  them. 
They  enjoy  agreeable  emotions,  but  are  not  fitted  for 
deep  sensations.  The  full  rejuvenescence  of  being,  the 
warm  air  of  spring  which  renews  and  penetrates  all 
existence,  suggests  but  a  pleasing  couplet ;  they  remark 
in  passing, "  Now  is  winter  gone,  the  hawthorn  blossoms, 
the  rose  expands,"  and  so  pass  on  about  their  business. 
It  is  a  light  gladsomeness,  soon  gone,  like  that  which 
an  April  landscape  affords.  For  an  instant  the  author 
glances  at  the  mist  of  the  streams  rising  about  the 
willow  trees,  the  pleasant  vapour  which  imprisons  the 
brightness  of  the  morning;  then,  humming  a  burden 
of  a  song,  he  returns  to  his  narrative.  He  seeks 
amusement,  and  herein  lies  his  power. 

In  life,  as  in  literature,  it  is  pleasure  he  aims  at,  not 
sensual  pleasure  or  emotion.  He  is  lively,  not  voluptuous; 
dainty,  not  a  glutton.  He  takes  love  for  a  pastime,  not 
for  an  intoxication.  It  is  a  pretty  fruit  which  he  plucks, 
tastes,  and  leaves.  And  we  must  remark  yet  further,  that 
the  best  of  the  fruit  in  his  eyes  is  the  fact  of  its  being  for- 
bidden. He  says  to  himself  that  he  is  duping  a  husband, 
that  "  he  deceives  a  cruel  woman,  and  thinks  he  ought 
to  obtain  a  pope's  indulgence  for  the  deed." l  He  wishes 
1  La  Fontaine,  Oontes,  Richard  Minutolo. 


V-I.    P.-II2. 


JOHN    GOWER 


CHAP.  n.  THE  NORMANS.  113 

to  be  merry — it  is  the  state  he  prefers,  the  end  and  aim 
of  his  life;  and  especially  to  laugh  at  other  people. 
The  short  verse  of  his  fabliaux  gambols  and  leaps  like  a 
schoolboy  released  from  school,  over  all  things  respected 
or  respectable ;  criticising  the  church,  women,  the  great, 
the  monks.  Scoffers,  banterers,  our  fathers  have  abund- 
ance both  of  expression  and  matter;  and  the  matter 
comes  to  them  so  naturally,  that  without  culture,  and 
surrounded  by  coarseness,  they  are  as  delicate  in  their 
raillery  as  the  most  refined.  They  touch  upon  ridicule 
lightly,  they  mock  without  emphasis,  as  it  were  inno- 
cently ;  their  style  is  so  harmonious,  that  at  first  sight 
we  make  a  mistake,  and  do  not  see  any  harm  in  it 
They  seem  artless ;  they  look  so  very  demure ;  only  a 
.word  shows  the  imperceptible  smile :  it  is  the  ass,  for 
example,  which  they  call  the  high  priest,  by  reason  of 
his  padded  cassock  and  his  serious  air,  and  who  gravely 
begins  "to  play  the  organ."  At  the  close  of  the 
history,  the  delicate  sense  of  comicality  has  touched 
you,  though  you  cannot  say  how.  They  do  not  call 
things  by  their  names,  especially  in  love  matters ;  they 
let  you  guess  it ;  they  assume  that  you  are  as  sharp  and 
knowing  as  themselves.1  A  man  might  discriminate, 
embellish  at  times,  perhaps  refine  upon  them,  but  their 
first  traits  are  incomparable.  When  the  fox  approaches 
the  raven  to  steal  the  cheese,  he  begins  as  a  hypocrite, 
piously  and  cautiously,  and  as  one  of  the  family.  He 
calls  the  raven  his  "  good  father  Don  Rohart,  who  sings 
so  well;"  he  praises  his  voice,  "so  sweet  and  fine." 
"You  would  be  the  best  singer  in  the  world  if  you 

1  Parler  lui  veut  d'une  besogne 
06  crois  que  peu  conqnerrerois 
Si  la  besogne  vous  nommois. 
VOL.  I  I 


114  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

kept  clear  of  nuts."  Reynard  is  a  rogue,  an  artist  in 
the  way  of  invention,  not  a  mere  glutton;  he  loves 
roguery  for  its  own  sake ;  he  rejoices  in  his  superiority, 
and  draws  out  his  mockery.  When  Tibert,  the  cat,  by 
his  counsel  hung  himself  at  the  bell  rope,  wishing  to 
ring  it,  he  uses  irony,  enjoys  and  relishes  it,  pretends 
to  wax  impatient  with  the  poor  fool  whom  he  has 
caught,  calls  him  proud,  complains  because  the  other 
does  not  answer,  and  because  he  wishes  to  rise  to  the 
clouds  and  visit  the  saints.  And  from  beginning  to 
end  this  long  epic  of  Reynard  the  Fox  is  the  same; 
the  raillery  never  ceases,  and  never  fails  to  be  agreeable. 
Reynard  has  so  much  wit,  that  he  is  pardoned  for 
everything.  The  necessity  for  laughter  is  national — 
so  indigenous  to  the  French,  that  a  stranger  cannot 
understand,  and  is  shocked  by  it.  This  pleasure  does 
not  resemble  physical  joy  in  any  respect,  which  is  to  be 
despised  for  its  grossness ;  on  the  contrary,  it  sharpens 
the  intelligence,  and  brings  to  light  many  a  delicate  01 
ticklish  idea.  The  fabliaux  are  full  of  truths  about  men, 
and  still  more  about  women,  about  people  of  low  rank, and 
still  more  about  those  of  high  rank ;  it  is  a  method  of 
philosophising  by  stealth  and  boldly,  in  spite  of  conven- 
tionalism, and  in  opposition  to  the  powers  that  be.  This 
taste  has  nothing  in  common  either  with  open  satire, 
which  is  offensive  because  it  is  cruel ;  on  the  contrary, 
it  provokes  good  humour.  We  soon  see  that  the  jester 
is  not  ill-disposed,  that  he  does  not  wish  to  wound :  if 
he  stings,  it  is  as  a  bee,  without  venom;  an  instant 
later  he  is  not  thinking  of  it ;  if  need  be,  he  will  take 
himself  as  an  object  of  his  pleasantry ;  all  he  wishes  ia 
to  keep  up  in  himself  and  in  us  sparkling  and  pleasing 
ideas.  Do  we  not  see  here  iu  advance  an  abstract  of 


OHAP.  n  THE  NORMANS  115 

the  whole  French  literature,  the  incapacity  for  great 
poetry,  the  sudden  and  durable  perfection  of  prose,  the 
excellence  of  all  the  moods  of  conversation  and  elo- 
quence, the  reign  and  tyranny  of  taste  and  method,  the 
art  and  theory  of  development  and  arrangement,  the 
gift  of  being  measured,  clear,  amusing,  and  piquant  ? 
We  have  taught  Europe  how  ideas  fall  into  order,  and 
which  ideas  are  agreeable ;  and  this  is  what  our  French- 
men of  the  eleventh  century  are  about  to  teach  their 
Saxons  during  five  or  six  centuries,  first  with  the  lance, 
next  with  the  stick,  next  with  the  birch. 

IV. 

Consider,  then,  this  Frenchman  or  Norman,  this  man 
from  Anjou  or  Maine,  who  in  his  well-knit  coat  of  mail, 
with  sword  and  lance,  came  to  seek  his  fortune  in  Eng- 
land. He  took  the  manor  of  some  slain  Saxon,  and 
settled  himself  in  it  with  his  soldiers  and  comrades,  gave 
them  land,  houses,  the  right  of  levying  taxes,  on  condi- 
tion of  their  fighting  under  him  and  for  him,  as  men-at- 
arms,  marshals,  standard-bearers ;  it  was  a  league  in  case 
of  danger.  In  fact,  they  were  in  a  hostile  and  conquered 
country,  and  they  have  to  maintain  themselves.  Each 
one  hastened  to  build  for  himself  a  place  of  refuge,  castle 
or  fortress,1  well  fortified,  of  solid  stone,  with  narrow 
windows,  strengthened  with  battlements,  garrisoned  by 
soldiers,  pierced  with  loopholes.  Then  these  men  went  to 
Salisbury,  to  the  number  of  sixty  thousand,  all  holders  of 
land,  having  at  least  enough  to  maintain  a  man  with 
horse  or  arms.  There,  placing  their  hands  in  William's, 
they  promised  him  fealty  and  assistance ;  and  the  king's 
edict  declared  that  they  must  be  all  united  and  bound 
1  At  King  Stephen's  death  there  were  1115  castles, 


116  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

together  like  brothers  in  arms,  to  defend  and  succour 
each  other.  They  are  an  armed  colony,  stationary, 
like  the  Spartans  amongst  the  Helots ;  and  they  make 
laws  accordingly.  When  a  Frenchman  is  found  dead  in 
any  district,  the  inhabitants  are  to  give  up  the  murderer, 
or  failing  to  do  so,  they  must  pay  forty-seven  marks  as  a 
fine ;  if  the  dead  man  is  English,  it  rests  with  the  people 
of  the  place  to  prove  it  by  the  oath  of  four  near  relatives 
of  the  deceased.  They  are  to  beware  of  killing  a  stag, 
boar,  or  fawn ;  for  an  offence  against  the  forest-laws  they 
will  lose  their  eyes.  They  have  nothing  of  all  their  pro- 
perty assured  to  them  except  as  alms,  or  on  condition  of 
paying  tribute,  or  by  taking  the  oath  of  allegiance.  Here 
a  free  Saxon  proprietor  is  made  a  body-slave  on  his  own 
estate.1  Here  a  noble  and  rich  Saxon  lady  feels  on  her 
shoulder  the  weight  of  the  hand  of  a  Norman  valet,  who 
is  become  by  force  her  husband  or  her  lover.  There 
were  Saxons  of  one  sol,  or  of  two  sols,  according  to  the 
sum  which  they  gained  for  their  masters;  they  sold 
them,  hired  them,  worked  them  on  joint  account,  like  an 
ox  or  an  ass.  One  Norman  abbot  has  his  Saxon  prede- 
cessors dug  up,  and  their  bones  thrown  without  the  gates. 
Another  keeps  men-at-arms,  who  bring  his  recalcitrant 
monks  to  reason  by  blows  of  their  swords.  Imagine,  if  you 
can,  the  pride  of  these  new  lords,  conquerors,  strangers, 
masters,  nourished  by  habits  of  violent  activity,  and  by 
the  savagery,  ignorance,  and  passions  of  feudal  life. 
"They  thought  they  might  do  whatsoever  they  pleased," 
say  the  old  chroniclers.  "  They  shed  blood  indiscrimi- 
nately, snatched  the  morsel  of  bread  from  the  mouth  of 
the  wretched,  and  seized  upon  all  the  money,  the  goods, 
the  land."2  Thus  "  all  the  folk  in  the  low  country  were 

1  A.  Thierry,  Histoire  de  la  Conqutte  de  rAngleterre,  ii. 
8  William  of  Malmesbury.     A.  Thierry,  ii.  20.  122-208. 


CHAP.  H.  THE  NORMANS.  117 

at  great  pains  to  seem  humble  before  Ivo  Taille-bois,  and 
only  to  address  him  with  one  knee  on  the  ground; 
but  although  they  made  a  point  of  paying  him  every 
honour,  and  giving  him  all  and  more  than  all  which  they 
owed  him  in  the  way  of  rent  and  service,  he  harassed, 
tormented,  tortured,  imprisoned  them,  set  his  dogs  upon 
their  cattle,  .  .  .  broke  the  legs  and  backbones  of  their 
beasts  of  burden,  .  .  .  and  sent  men  to  attack  their 
servants  on  the  road  with  sticks  and  swords."1  The 
Normans  would  not  and  could  not  borrow  any  idea  or 
custom  from  such  boors;2  they  despised  them  as  coarse 
and  stupid.  They  stood  amongst  them,  as  the  Spaniards 
amongst  the  Americans  in  the  sixteenth  century,  superior 
in  force  and  culture,  more  versed  in  letters,  more  expert 
in  the  arts  of  luxury.  They  preserved  their  manners 
and  their  speech.  England,  to  all  outward  appearance 
— the  court  of  the  king,  the  castles  of  the  nobles,  the 
palaces  of  the  bishops,  the  houses  of  the  wealthy — was 
French ;  and  the  Scandinavian  people,  of  whom  sixty 
years  ago  the  Saxon  kings  used  to  have  poems  sung  to 
them,  thought  that  the  nation  had  forgotten  its  language, 
and  treated  it  in  their  laws  as  though  it  were  no  longer 
their  sister. 

It  was  a  French  literature,  then,  which  was  at  this 
time  domiciled  across  the  channel,3  and  the  conquerors 
tried  to  make  it  purely  French,  purged  from  all  Saxon 
alloy.  They  made  such  a  point  of  this,  that  the  nobles 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  II.  sent  their  sons  to  France,  to 

1  A.  Thierry. 

a  "  In  the  year  652,"  says  Warton,  i.  3,  "  it  was  the  common  prac- 
tice of  the  Anglo-Saxons  to  send  their  youth  to  the  monasteries  of 
France  for  education  ;  and  not  only  the  language  but  the  manners  of 
the  French  were  esteemed  the  most  polite  accomplishments." 

•  Warton,  i.  o. 


118  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

preserve  them  from  barbarisms.  "For  two  hundred 
years,"  says  Higden,1  "  children  in  scole,  agenst  the 
usage  and  manir  of  all  other  nations  beeth  compelled 
for  to  leve  hire  own  langage,  and  for  to  construe  hir 
lessons  and  hire  thynges  in  Frensche."  The  statutes 
of  the  universities  obliged  the  students  to  converse 
either  in  French  or  Latin.  "  Gentilmen  children  beeth 
taught  to  speke  Frensche  from  the  tyme  that  they  bith 
rokked  in  hire  cradell;  and  uplondissche  men  will 
likne  himself  to  gentylmen,  and  fondeth  with  greet 
besynesse  for  to  speke  Frensche."  Of  course  the  poetry 
is  French.  The  Norman  brought  his  minstrel  with 
him;  there  was  Taillefer,  the  jongleur,  who  sang  the 
Song  of  Roland  at  the  battle  of  Hastings ;  there  was 
Adeline,  the  jongleuse,  who  received  an  estate  in  the 
partition  which  followed  the  Conquest.  The  Norman 
who  ridiculed  the  Saxon  kings,  who  dug  up  the  Saxon 
saints,  and  cast  them  without  the  walls  of  the  church, 
loved  none  but  French  ideas  and  verses.  It  was  into 
French  verse  that  Kobert  Wace  rendered  the  legendary 
history  of  the  England  which  was  conquered,  and  the 
actual  history  of  the  Normandy  in  which  he  continued 
to  live.  Enter  one  of  the  abbeys  where  the  minstrels 
come  to  sing,  "where  the  clerks  after  dinner  and 
supper  read  poems,  the  chronicles  of  kingdoms,  the 
wonders  of  the  world,"2  you  will  only  find  Latin  or 
French  verses,  Latin  or  French  prose.  What  becomes 

1  Trevisa's  translation  of  the  Polycronycon. 

3  Statutes  of  foundation  of  New  College,  Oxford.  In  the  abbey  of 
Glastonbury,  in  1247  :  Liber  de  exeidio  Trojce,  gesta  Ricardi  regis,  gesta 
Alexandri  Magni,  etc.  In  the  abbey  of  Peterborough  :  Amys  et 
Amelion,  Sir  Tristam,  Guy  de  Bourgogne,  gesta  Otuclis,  les  prophftiet 
de  Merlin,  le  Charlemagne  de  Turpin,  la  destruction  dt  Tr&ie,  etc. 
Warton,  ibidem. 


CHAP.  THE  NORMANS.  119 

of  English  ?  Obscure,  despised,  we  hear  it  no  more, 
except  in  the  mouths  of  degraded  franklins,  outlaws  of 
the  forest,  swineherds,  peasants,  the  lowest  orders.  It 
is  no  longer,  or  scarcely  written ;  gradually  we  find  in 
the  Saxon  chronicle  that  the  idiorn  alters,  is  extin- 
guished; the  chronicle  itself  ceases  within  a  century 
after  the  Conquest1  The  people  who  have  leisure  or 
security  enough  to  read  or  write  are  French ;  for  them 
authors  devise  and  compose ;  literature  always  adapts 
itself  to  the  taste  of  those  who  can  appreciate  and  pay 
for  it  Even  the  English2  endeavour  to  write  in 
French :  thus  Eobert  Grostete,  in  his  allegorical  poem 
on  Christ ;  Peter  Langtoft,  in  his  Chronicle  of  England, 
and  in  his  Life  of  TJwmas  d  Becket ;  Hugh  de  Rothe- 
land,  in  his  poem  of  Hippomedon  ;  John  Hoveden,  and 
many  others.  Several  write  the  first  half  of  the  verse 
in  English,  and  the  second  in  French;  a  strange  sign 
of  the  ascendency  which  is  moulding  and  oppressing 
them.  Even  in  the  fifteenth  century,3  many  of  these 
poor  folk  are  employed  in  this  task ;  French  is  the 
language  of  the  court,  from  it  arose  all  poetry  and 
elegance ;  he  is  but  a  clodhopper  who  is  inapt  at  that 
style.  They  apply  themselves  to  it  as  our  old  scholars 
did  to  Latin  verses ;  they  are  gallicised  as  those  were 
latinised,  by  constraint,  with  a  sort  of  fear,  knowing 
well  that  they  are  but  schoolboys  and  provincials. 
Gower,  one  of  their  best  poets,  at  the  end  of  his  French 
works,  excuses  himself  humbly  for  not  having  "de 
Fran9ais  la  faconde.  Pardonnez  moi,"  he  says,  "  que 
de  ce  je  forsvoie ;  je  suis  Anglais." 

1  In  1154.  2  Warton,  i.  72-78. 

»  In  1400.     Warton,  ii  248.     Gower  died  in  1408  ;  his  French 
ballads  belong  to  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century. 


120  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

And  yet,  after  all,  neither  the  race  nor  the  tongue 
has  perished.  It  is  necessary  that  the  Norman  should 
learn  English,  in  order  to  command  his  tenants ;  his 
Saxon  wife  speaks  it  to  him,  and  his  sons  receive  it 
from  the  lips  of  their  nurse;  the  contagion  is  strong, 
for  he  is  obliged  to  send  them  to  France,  to  preserve 
them  from  the  jargon  which  on  his  domain  threatens 
to  overwhelm  and  spoil  them.  Erorn  generation  to 
generation  the  contagion  spreads ;  they  breathe  it  in 
the  air,  with  the  foresters  in  the  chase,  the  farmers  in 
the  field,  the  sailors  on  the  ships  :  for  these  coarse  people, 
shut  in  by  their  animal  existence,  are  not  the  kind  to 
learn  a  foreign  language ;  by  the  simple  weight  of  their 
dulness  they  impose  their  idiom  on  their  conquerors,  at  all 
events  such  words  as  pertain  to  living  things.  Scholarly 
speech,  the  language  of  law,  abstract  and  philosophical 
expressions, — in  short,  all  words  depending  on  reflec- 
tion and  culture  may  be  French,  since  there  is  nothing 
to  prevent  it.  This  is  just  what  happens ;  these  kind  of 
ideas  and  this  kind  of  speech  are  not  understood  by  the 
commonalty,  who,  not  being  able  to  touch  them,  cannot 
change  them.  This  produces  a  French,  a  colonial  French, 
doubtless  perverted,  pronounced  with  closed  mouth,  with 
a  contortion  of  the  organs  of  speech,  "after  the  school  of 
Stratford-atte-Bow ;"  yet  it  is  still  French.  On  the 
other  hand,  as  regards  the  speech  employed  about  com- 
mon actions  and  visible  objects,  it  is  the  people,  the 
Saxons,  who  fix  it;  these  living  words  are  too  firmly 
rooted  in  his  experience  to  allow  of  being  parted  with, 
and  thus  the  whole  substance  of  the  language  comes 
from  him.  Here,  then,  we  have  the  Norman  who,  slowly 
and  constrainedly,  speaks  and  understands  English,  a 
deformed,  gallicised  English,  yet  English,  in  sap  and  root ; 


CHAP.  n.  THE  NORMANS.  121 

but  he  has  taken  his  time  about  it,  for  it  has  required 
two  centuries.  It  was  only  under  Henry  III.  that  the 
new  tongue  is  complete,  with  the  new  constitution ;  and 
that,  after  the  like  fashion,  by  alliance  and  intermixture  ; 
the  burgesses  come  to  take  their  seats  in  Parliament 
with  the  nobles,  at  the  same  time  that  Saxon  words  settle 
down  in  the  language  side  by  side  with  French  words. 

V. 

So  was  modern  English  formed,  by  compromise,  and 
the  necessity  of  being  understood.  But  we  can  well 
imagine  that  these  nobles,  even  while  speaking  the  rising 
dialect,  have  their  hearts  full  of  French  tastes  and  ideas  ; 
France  remains  the  home  of  their  mind,  and  the  litera- 
ture which  now  begins,  is  but  translation.  Translators, 
copyists,  imitators — there  is  nothing  else.  England  is 
a  distant  province,  which  is  to  France  what  the  United 
States  were,  thirty  years  ago,  to  Europe:  she  exports 
her  wool,  and  imports  her  ideas.  Open  the  Voyage  and 
Travaile  of  Sir  John  Maundeville,1  the  oldest  prose- 
writer,  the  Villehardouin  of  the  country :  his  book  is 
but  the  translation  of  a  translation.2  He  writes  first  in 
Latin,  the  language  of  scholars;  then  in  French,  the 

1  He  wrote  in  1356,  and  died  in  1372. 

8  "  And  for  als  moche  as  it  is  longe  time  passed  that  ther  was  no 
generalle  Passage  ne  Vyage  over  the  See,  and  many  Men  desiren  for  to 
here  speke  of  the  holy  Lond,  and  han  thereof  gret  Solace  and  Comfort, 
I,  John  Mauudevylle,  Knyght,  alle  be  it  I  be  not  worthi,  that  was  born 
in  Englond,  in  the  town  of  Seynt-Albones,  passed  the  See  in  the  Zeer  of 
our  Lord  Jesu-Crist  1322,  in  the  Day  of  Seynt  Michelle,  and  hidreto 
have  been  longe  tyme  over  the  See,  and  have  seyn  and  gon  thorghe 
manye  dyverse  londes,  and  many  Provynces,  and  Kingdomes,  and  lies. 

"  And  zee  shulle  undirstonde  that  I  have  put  this  Boke  out  of  Latyn 
into  Frensche,  and  translated  it  azen  out  of  Frensche,  into  Englyssche, 
that  every  Man  of  my  Nacioun  may  undirstonde  it." — Sir  John  Maun 
devilles  Voyage  and  Travaile,  ed.  Halliwell,  1866,  prologue,  p.  4. 


122  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

language  of  society;  finally  he  reflects,  and  discovers 
that  the  barons,  his  compatriots,  by  governing  the  Saxon 
churls,  have  ceased  to  speak  their  own  Norman,  and 
that  the  rest  of  the  nation  never  knew  it ;  he  translates 
his  manuscript  into  English,  and,  in  addition,  takes 
care  to  make  it  plain,  feeling  that  he  speaks  to  less  ex- 
panded understandings.  He  says  in  French: — "II 
advint  une  fois  que  Mahomet  allait  dans  une  chapelle  ou 
il  y  avait  un  saint  ermite.  II  entra  en  la  chapelle  ou  il 
y  avait  une  petite  huisserie  et  basse,  et  e*tait  bien  petite 
la  chapelle;  et  alors  devint  la  porte  si  grande  qu'il 
semblait  que  ce  fut  la  porte  d'un  palais." 

He  stops,  corrects  himself,  wishes  to  explain  himself 
better  for  his  readers  across  the  Channel,  and  says  in 
English : — "  And  at  the  Desertes  of  Arabye,  he  wente 
into  a  Chapelle  where  a  Eremyte  duelte.  And  whan  he 
entred  in  to  the  Chapelle  that  was  but  a  lytille  and  a 
low  thing,  and  had  but  a  lytill  Dore  and  a  low,  than  the 
Entree  began  to  wexe  so  gret  and  so  large,  and  so  highe, 
as  though  it  had  ben  of  a  gret  Mynstre,  or  the  Zate  of 
a  Paleys."  l  You  perceive  that  he  amplifies,  and  thinks 
himself  bound  to  clinch  and  drive  in  three  or  four  times 
in  succession  the  same  idea,  in  order  to  get  it  into  an 
English  brain ;  his  thought  is  drawn  out,  dulled,  spoiled 
in  the  process.  Like  every  copy,  the  new  literature  is 
mediocre,  and  repeats  what  it  imitates,  with  fewer  merits 
and  greater  faults. 

Let  us  see,  then,  what  our  Norman  baron  gets  trans- 
lated for  him ;  first,  the  chronicles  of  Geoffroy  Gaimar 

1  Sir  John  Maundeville'a  Voyage  and  Travaile,  ed.  Halliwell,  1866, 
jriL  p.  139.  It  is  confessed  that  the  original  on  which  Wace  depended 
for  his  ancient  History  of  England  is  the  Latin  compilation  of  Geoffrey 
of  Monmouth. 


CHAP.  IL 


THE  NORMANS. 


123 


and  Eobert  Wace,  which  consist  of  the  fabulous  history 
of  England  continued  up  to  their  day,  a  dull-rhymed 
rhapsody,  turned  into  English  in  a  rhapsody  no  less  dull. 
The  first  Englishman  who  attempts  it  is  Layamon,1  a 
monk  of  Ernely,  still  fettered  in  the  old  idiom,  who 
sometimes  happens  to  rhyme,  sometimes  fails,  altogether 
barbarous  and  childish,  unable  to  develop  a  continuous 
idea,  babbling  in  little  confused  and  incomplete  phrases, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  ancient  Saxons ;  after  him  a 
monk,  Kobert  of  Gloucester, 2  and  a  canon,  Kobert  of 

1  Extract  from  the  account  of  the  proceedings  at  Arthur's  coronation 
given  by  Layamon,  in  his  translation  of  Wace,  executed  about  1180. 
Madden's  Layamon,  1847,  ii.  p.  625,  et  passim  : 


Tha  the  king  igeten  hafde 

And  al  his  mon-weorede, 

Tha  bugen  ut  of  burhge 

Theines  swithe  balde. 

Alle  tha  kinges, 

And  heore  here-thringes. 

Alle  tha  biscopes, 

And  alle  tha  clserckes, 

All  the  eorles, 

And  alle  tha  beornes. 

Alle  tha  theines, 

Alle  the  sweines, 
Feire  iscrudde, 
Helde  geond  felde. 
Summe  heo  gunnen  semen, 
Summe  heo  gunnen  urnen, 
Summe  heo  gunnen  lepen, 
Summe  heo  gunnen  sceoten, 
Summe  heo  wraestleden 
And  wither-gome  makeden, 
Summe  heo  on  uelde 
Pleouweden  under  scelde, 
Summe  heo  driven  balles 

•  "Wide  geond  tha  feldes. 


Monianes  kunnes  gomen 
Ther  heo  gunnen  driuen. 
And  wha  swa  mihte  iwinne 
Wurthscipe  of  his  gomene, 
Hine  me  ladde  mid  songe 
At  foren  than  leod  kinge  ; 
And  the  king,  for  his  gomene, 
Gaf  him  geven  gode. 
Alle  tha  quene 
The  icumen  weoren  there, 
And  alle  tha  lafdies, 
Leoneden  geond  walles, 
To  bihalden  the  dugethen, 
And  that  folc  plseie. 
This  ilaeste  threo  daeges, 
Swulc  gomes  and  swulc  plsegea, 
Tha,  at  than  veorthe  dseie 
The  king  gon  to  spekene 
And  agsef  his  goden  cnihten 
All  heore  rihten  ; 
He  gef  seolver,  he  gsef  gold, 
He  gef  hors,  he  gef  lond, 
Castles,  and  clo3thes  eke  ; 
His  monnen  he  iquenda, 


After  1297. 


124  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  I. 

Brunne,  both  as  insipid  and  clear  as  their  French 
models,  having  become  gallicised,  and  adopted  the  signi- 
ficant characteristic  of  the  race,  namely,  the  faculty  and 
habit  of  easy  narration,  of  seeing  moving  spectacles 
without  deep  emotion,  of  writing  prosaic  poetry,  of  dis- 
coursing and  developing,  of  believing  that  phrases  ending 
in  the  same  sounds  form  real  poetry.  Our  honest 
English  versifiers,  like  their  preceptors  in  Normandy  and 
Ile-de-France,  garnished  with  rhymes  their  dissertations 
and  histories,  and  called  them  poems.  At  this  epoch,  in 
fact,  on  the  Continent,  the  whole  learning  of  the  schools 
descends  into  the  street ;  and  Jean  de  Meung,  in  his 
poem  of  la  Rose,  is  the  most  tedious  of  doctors.  So  in 
England,  Robert  of  Brunne  transposes  into  verse  the 
Manuel  des  PecMs  of  Bishop  Grostete;  Adam  Davie,1 
certain  Scripture  histories ;  Hampole 2  composes  the 
Pricke  of  Conscience.  The  titles  alone  make  one  yawn : 
what  of  the  text  ? 

"  Mankynde  mad  ys  to  do  Goddus  wylle, 
And  alle  Hys  byddyngus  to  fulfills ; 
For  of  al  Hys  makyng  more  and  les, 
Man  most  principal  creature  es. 
Al  that  He  made  for  man  hit  was  done, 
As  ye  schal  here  after  sone."3 

There  is  a  poem  !  You  did  not  think  so ;  call  it  a  ser- 
mon, if  you  will  give  it  its  proper  name.  It  goes  on, 
well  divided,  well  prolonged,  flowing,  but  void  of 
meaning  ;  the  literature  which  surrounds  and  resembles 
it  bears  witness  of  its  origin  by  its  loquacity  and  its 
clearness. 

It  bears  witness  to  it  by  other  and  more  agreeable 

1  About  1312.  *  About  1349.  a  Warton,  ii.  36. 


CHAP,  tt  THE  NORMANS.  125 

features.  Here  and  there  we  find  divergences  more  or 
less  awkward  into  the  domain  of  genius ;  for  instance,  a 
ballad  full  of  quips  against  Kichard,  King  of  the  Romans, 
who  was  taken  at  the  battle  of  Lewes.  Sometimes, 
charm  is  not  lacking,  nor  sweetness  either.  No  one  has 
ever  spoken  so  bright  and  so  well  to  the  ladies  as  the 
French  of  the  Continent,  and  they  have  not  quite  for- 
gotten this  talent  while  settling  in  England.  You  per- 
ceive it  readily  in  the  manner  in  which  they  celebrate 
the  Virgin.  Nothing  could  be  more  different  from  the 
Saxon  sentiment,  which  is  altogether  biblical,  than  the 
chivalric  adoration  of  the  sovereign  Lady,  the  fascinat- 
ing Virgin  and  Saint,  who  was  the  real  deity  of  the 
middle  ages.  It  breathes  in  this  pleasing  hymn : 

"  Blessed  beo  thu,  lavedi, 
Ful  of  hovene  blisse ; 
Swete  flur  of  parais, 
Moder  of  milternisse.  .  .  . 
I-blessed  beo  thu,  Lavedi, 
So  fair  and  so  briht ; 
Al  rain  hope  is  uppon  the, 
Bi  day  and  bi  nicht.  .  .  . 
Bricht  and  scene  quen  of  storre, 
So  me  liht  and  lere. 
In  this  false  fikele  world, 
So  me  led  and  steore."1 

There  is  but  a  short  and  easy  step  between  this  tender 
worship  of  the  Virgin  and  the  sentiments  of  the  court  of 
love.  The  English  rhymesters  take  it ;  and  when  they 
wish  to  praise  their  earthly  mistresses,  they  borrow,  here 
as  elsewhere,  the  ideas  and  the  very  form  of  French 

1  Time  of  Henry  III.,  Rdiquiee  Antiquioe,  edited  by  Messrs.  Wright 
and  Halliwell,  i.  102. 


126  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

verse.  One  compares  liis  lady  to  all  kinds  of  precious 
stones  and  flowers ;  others  sing  truly  amorous  songs,  at 
times  sensual : 

"  Bytuene  Mershe  and  Aueril, 
When  spray  biginneth  to  springe, 
The  lutel  foul  hath  hire  wyl 
On  hyre  lud  to  synge, 
Ich  libbe  in  louelonginge 
For  semlokest  of  alle  thynge. 
He  may  me  blysse  bringe, 
Icham  in  hire  banndoun. 
An  bendy  hap  ichabbe  yhent, 
Ichot  from  heuene  it  is  me  sent. 
From  alle  wynnuen  my  love  is  lent> 
And  lyht  on  Alisoun."1 

Another  sings  : 

"  Suete  lemmou,  y  preye  the,  of  loue  one  speche, 
Whil  y  lyue  in  world  so  wyde  other  nulle  y  seche. 
With  thy  loue,  my  suete  leof,  mi  bliss  thou  mihtes  eche 
A  suete  cos  of  thy  mouth  mihte  be  my  leche."2 

Is  not  this  the  lively  and  warm  imagination  of  the  south  ? 
they  speak  of  springtime  and  of  love,  "  the  fine  and  lovely 
weather,"  like  trouv&rcs,  even  like  troubadours.  The 
dirty,  smoke-grimed  cottage,  the  black  feudal  castle, 
where  all  but  the  master  lie  higgledy-piggledy  on  the 
straw  in  the  great  stone  hall,  the  cold  rain,  the  muddy 
earth,  make  the  return  of  the  sun  and  the  warm  air 
delicious. 

"  Sumer  is  i-cumen  in, 
Lhude  sing  cuccu : 
Groweth  sed,  and  bloweth  med, 
And  springeth  the  wde  nu. 

1  About  1278.     Warton,  L  28.  •  Ibid.  I  81. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  127 

Sing  cuccu,  cuccu. 
Awe  bleteth  after  lomb, 
Llouth  after  calue  cu, 
Bulluc  stertcth,  bucke  verteth : 

Murie  sing  cuccu, 

Cuccu,  cuccu. 
Wei  singes  thu  cuccu ; 
Ne  swik  thu  nauer  nu. 

Sing,  cuccu  nu, 

Sing,  cuccu.1 

Here  are  glowing  pictures,  such  as  Guillaume  de  Lorris 
was  writing,  at  the  same  time,  even  richer  and  more  life- 
like, perhaps  because  the  poet  found  here  for  inspiration 
that  love  of  country  life  which  in  England  is  deep  and 
national.  Others,  more  imitative,  attempt  pleasantries 
like  those  of  Eutebeuf  and  the  fabliaux,  frank  quips,2  and 
even  satirical  loose  waggeries.  Their  true  aim  and  end 
is  to  hit  out  at  the  monks.  In  every  French  country  or 
country  which  imitates  France,  the  most  manifest  use 
of  convents  is  to  furnish  material  for  sprightly  and 
scandalous  stories.  One  writes,  for  instance,  of  the 
kind  of  life  the  monks  lead  at  the  abbey  of  Cocagne : 

"  There  is  a  wel  fair  abbei, 
Of  white  monkes  and  of  grei. 
Ther  beth  bowris  and  halles  : 
Al  of  pasteiis  beth  the  wallis, 
Of  fleis,  of  fisse,  and  rich  met, 
The  likfullist  that  man  may  et. 
Fluren  cakes  beth  the  schingles  alle, 
Of  cherche,  cloister,  boure,  and  halle. 

1  Warton,  i.  30. 

*  Poem  of  the  Owl  and  Nightingale,  who  dispute  as  to  which  has  the 
finest  voice. 


128  THE  SOURCE  BOOK  i. 

The  pinnes  beth  fat  podinges 

Rich  met  to  princes  and  kinges.  .  .  . 

Though  paradis  be  miri  and  bright 

Cokaign  is  of  fairir  sight.  .  .  . 

Another  abbei  is  therbi, 

Forsoth  a  gret  fair  nunnerie.  .  .  . 

When  the  soineris  dai  is  hote 

The  young  nunnes  takith  a  bote  .  .  . 

And  doth  ham  forth  in  that  river 

Both  with  ores  and  with  stere.  .  .  . 

And  euch  monk  him  takith  on, 

And  snellich  berrith  forth  har  prei 

To  the  mochil  grei  abbei, 

And  techith  the  nunnes  an  oreisun, 

With  iambleue  up  and  down." 

This*  is  the  triumph  of  gluttony  and  feeding.  Moreover 
many  things  could  be  mentioned  in  the  middle  ages, 
which  are  now  unmentionable.  But  it  was  the  poems 
of  chivalry  which  represented  to  him  the  bright  side  of 
his  own  mode  of  life,  that  the  baron  preferred  to  have 
translated.  He  desired  that  his  trouvbre  should  set 
before  his  eyes  the  magnificence  which  he  displayed, 
and  the  luxury  and  enjoyments  which  he  has  introduced 
from  France.  Life  at  that  time,  without  and  even 
during  war,  was  a  great  pageant,  a  brilliant  and  tumultu- 
ous kind  of  fete.  When  Henry  II.  travelled,  he  took 
with  him  a  great  number  of  horsemen,  foot-soldiers, 
baggage-waggons,  tents,  pack-horses,  comedians,  courte- 
sans, and  their  overseers,  cooks,  confectioners,  posture- 
makers,  dancers,  barbers,  go-betweens,  hangers-on.1  In 
the  morning  when  they  start,  the  assemblage  begins  to 
shout,  sing,  hustle  each  other,  make  racket  and  rout 

1  Letter  of  Peter  of  Bloi*. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  129 

"  as  if  hell  were  let  loose."  "William  Longchamps,  even 
in  time  of  peace,  would  not  travel  without  a  thousand 
horses  by  way  of  escort.  When  Archbishop  &  Becket 
came  to  France,  he  entered  the  town  with  two  hundred 
knights,  a  number  of  barons  and  nobles,  and  an  army 
of  servants,  all  richly  armed  and  equipped,  he  himself 
being  provided  with  four-and-twenty  suits ;  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  children  walked  in  front,  singing  national 
songs ;  then  dogs,  then  carriages,  then  a  dozen  pack- 
horses,  each  ridden  by  an  ape  and  a  man ;  then  equerries 
with  shields  and  war-horses;  then  more  equerries,  fal- 
coners, a  suite  of  domestics,  knights,  priests ;  lastly,  the 
archbishop  himself,  with  his  private  friends.  Imagine 
these  processions,  and  also  these  entertainments ;  for  the 
Normans,  after  the  Conquest,  "  borrowed  from  the  Saxons 
the  habit  of  excess  in  eating  and  drinking."1  At  the 
marriage  of  Richard  Plantagenet,  Earl  of  Cornwall, 
they  provided  thirty  thousand  dishes.2  They  also  con- 
tinued to  be  gallant,  and  punctiliously  performed  the 
great  precept  of  the  love  courts;  for  in  the  middle 
age  the  sense  of  love  was  no  more  idle  than  the  others. 
Moreover,  tournaments  were  plentiful ;  a  sort  of 
opera  prepared  for  their  own  entertainment.  So  ran 
their  life,  full  of  adventure  and  adornment,  in  the  open 
air  and  in  the  sunlight,  with  show  of  cavalcades  and 
arms ;  they  act  a  pageant,  and  act  it  with  enjoyment. 
Thus  the  King  of  Scots,  having  come  to  London  with  a 

1  William  of  Malmesbury. 

2  At  the  installation-feast  of  George  Nevill,  Archbishop  of  York, 
the  brother  of  Guy  of  Warwick,  there  were  consumed,  104  oxen  and  6 
wild  hulls,  1000  sheep,  304  calves,  as  many  hogs,  2000  swine,  500  stags, 
bucks,  and  does,  204  kids,  22,802  wild  or  tame  fowl,  300  quarters  of 
corn,  300  tuns  of  ale,  100  of  wine,  a  pipe  of  hypocras,  12  porpoises  and 

ils. 
VOL.  I.  K 


130  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i 

hundred  knights,  at  the  coronation  of  Edward  L,  they  all 
dismounted,  and  made  over  their  horses  and  superb 
caparisons  to  the  people  ;  as  did  also  five  English  lords, 
imitating  their  example.  In  the  midst  of  war  they  took 
their  pleasure.  Edward  III.,  in  one  of  his  expeditions 
against  the  King  of  France,  took  with  him  thirty  fal- 
coners, and  made  his  campaign  alternately  hunting  and 
fighting.1  Another  time,  says  Froissart,  the  knights 
who  joined  the  army  carried  a  plaster  over  one  eye, 
having  vowed  not  to  remove  it  until  they  had  performed 
an  exploit  worthy  of  their  mistresses.  Out  of  the  very 
exuberancy  of  spirit  they  practised  the  art  of  poetry ; 
out  of  the  buoyancy  of  their  imagination  they  made  a 
sport  of  life.  Edward  III.  built  at  Windsor  a  hall  and 
a  round  table ;  and  at  one  of  his  tourneys  in  London, 
sixty  ladies,  seated  on  palfreys,  led,  as  in  a  fairy  tale, 
each  her  knight  by  a  golden  chain.  Was  not  this  the 
triumph  of  the  gallant  and  frivolous  French  fashions  ? 
Edward's  wife  Philippa  sat  as  a  model  to  the  artists  for 
their  Madonnas.  She  appeared  on  the  field  of  battle  ; 
listened  to  Froissart,  who  provided  her  with  moral-plays, 
love-stories,  and  "  things  fair  to  listen  to."  At  once 
goddess,  heroine,  and  scholar,  and  all  this  so  agreeably, 
was  she  not  a  true  queen  of  refined  chivalry  ?  Now,  as 
also  in  France  under  Louis  of  Orleans  and  the  Dukes 
of  Burgundy,  this  most  elegant  and  romanesque  civilisa- 
tion came  into  full  bloom,  void  of  common  sense, 
given  up  to  passion,  bent  on  pleasure,  immoral  and 
brilliant,  but,  like  its  neighbours  of  Italy  and  Provence, 
for  lack  of  serious  intention,  it  could  not  last. 

Of  all  these  marvels  the  narrators  make  display  in 

x  These  prodigalities  and  refinements  grew  to  excess  under  his  grand- 
son Richard  II. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  131 

their  stories.     Here  is  a  picture  of  the  vessel  which 
took  the  mother  of  King  Eichard  into  England ; — 

"  Swlk  on  ne  seygh  they  never  non ; 
All  it  was  whyt  of  huel-bon, 
And  every  nayl  with  gold  begrave : 
OS  pure  gold  was  the  stave. 
Her  mast  was  of  yvory ; 
Off  samyte  the  sayl  wytterly. 
Her  ropes  wer  off  tuely  sylk, 
Al  so  whyt  as  ony  mylk. 
That  noble  schyp  was  al  withoute, 
With  clothys  of  golde  sprede  aboute ; 
And  her  loof  and  her  wyndas, 
Off  asure  forsothe  it  was."1 

On  such  subjects  they  never  run  dry.  When  the 
King  of  Hungary  wishes  to  console  his  afflicted  daughter, 
he  proposes  to  take  her  to  the  chase  in  the  following 

style : — 

"  To-morrow  ye  shall  in  hunting  fare : 
And  ride,  my  daughter,  in  a  chair ; 
It  shall  be  covered  with  velvet  red, 
And  cloths  of  fine  gold  all  about  your  head, 
With  damask  white  and  azure  blue, 
Well  diapered  with  lilies  new. 
Your  pommels  shall  be  ended  with  gold, 
Your  chains  enamelled  many  a  fold, 
Your  mantle  of  rich  degree, 
Purple  pall  and  ermine  free. 
Jennets  of  Spain  that  ben  so  light, 
Trapped  to  the  ground  with  velvet  bright. 
Ye  shall  have  harp,  sautry,  and  song, 
And  other  mirths  you  among. 

1  Warton,  L  166. 


132  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

Ye  shall  have  Rumuey  and  Malespine^ 

Both  hippocras  and  Vernage  wine  j 

Montrese  and  wine  of  Greek, 

Both  Algrade  and  despice  eke, 

Antioch  and  Bastarde, 

Pyment  also  and  garnarde ; 

Wine  of  Greek  and  Muscadel, 

Both  clare,  pyment,  and  Rochelle, 

The  reed  your  stomach  to  defy, 

And  pots  of  osey  set  you  by. 

You  shall  have  venison  ybake, 

The  best  wild  fowl  that  may  be  take; 

A  leish  of  harehound  with  you  to  streek, 

And  hart,  and  hind,  and  other  like. 

Ye  shall  be  set  at  such  a  tryst, 

That  hart  and  hynd  shall  corne  to  you  fist, 

Your  disease  to  drive  you  fro, 

To  hear  the  bugles  there  yblow. 

Homeward  thus  shall  ye  ride, 

On  hawking  by  the  river's  side, 

With  gosshawk  and  with  gentle  falcon, 

With  bugle-horn  and  merlion. 

When  you  come  home  your  menie  among, 

Ye  shall  have  revel,  dance,  and  song ; 

Little  children,  great  and  small, 

Shall  sing  as  does  the  nightingale. 

Then  shall  ye  go  to  your  evensong, 

With  tenors  and  trebles  among. 

Threescore  of  copes  of  damask  bright, 

Full  of  pearls  they  shall  be  pight. 

Your  censors  shall  be  of  gold, 

Indent  with  azure  many  a  fold ; 

Your  quire  nor  organ  song  shall  want, 

With  contre-note  and  descant. 

The  other  half  on  organs  playing, 

With  young  children  full  fain  singing. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  133 

Then  shall  ye  go  to  your  supper, 

And  sit  in  tents  in  green  arber, 

With  cloth  of  arras  pight  to  the  ground. 

With  sapphires  set  of  diamond. 

A  hundred  knights,  truly  told, 

Shall  play  with  bowls  in  alleys  cold, 

Your  disease  to  drive  away ; 

To  see  the  fishes  in  pools  play, 

To  a  drawbridge  then  shall  ye, 

Th'  one  half  of  stone,  th'  other  of  tree  ; 

A  barge  shall  meet  you  full  right, 

With  twenty-four  oars  full  bright, 

With  trumpets  and  with  clarion, 

The  fresh  water  to  row  up  and  down.  .  ,  . 

Forty  torches  burning  bright 

At  your  bridge  to  bring  you  light. 

Into  your  chamber  they  shall  you  bring, 

With  much  mirth  and  more  liking. 

Your  blankets  shall  be  of  fustian, 

Your  sheets  shall  be  of  cloth  of  Rennes. 

Your  head  sheet  shall  be  of  pery  pight, 

With  diamonds  set  and  rubies  bright. 

When  you  are  laid  in  bed  so  soft, 

A  cage  of  gold  shall  hang  aloft, 

With  long  paper  fair  burning, 

And  cloves  that  be  sweet  smelling. 

Frankincense  and  olibanum. 

That  when  ye  sleep  the  taste  may  come ; 

And  if  ye  no  rest  can  take, 

All  night  minstrels  for  you  shall  wake.'" 

Amid  such  fancies  and  splendours  the  poets  delight 
and  lose  themselves  ;  and  the  woof,  like  the  embroideries 
of  their  canvas,  bears  the  mark  of  this  love  of  deco- 

1  Warton,  i.  176,  spelling  modernised. 


134  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

ration.  They  weave  it  out  of  adventures,  of  extraordi- 
nary and  surprising. events.  Now  it  is  the  life  of  King 
Horn,  who,  thrown  into  a  boat  when  a  lad,  is  wrecked 
upon  the  coast  of  England,  and,  becoming  a  knight,  re- 
conquers the  kingdom  of  his  father.  Now  it  is  the 
history  of  Sir  Guy,  who  rescues  enchanted  knights,  cuts 
down  the  giant  Colbrand,  challenges  and  kills  the  Sultan 
in  his  tent.  It  is  not  for  me  to  recount  these  poems, 
which  are  not  English,  but  only  translations  ;  still,  here 
as  in  France,  there  are  many  of  them;  they  fill  the 
imagination  of  the  young  society,  and  they  grow  in 
exaggeration,  juntil,  falling  to  the  lowest  depth  of  in- 
sipidity and  improbability,  they  are  buried  for  ever  -by 
Cervantes.  What  would  people  say  of  a  society  which 
had  no  literature  but  the  opera  with  its  unrealities? 
Yet  it  was  a  literature  of  this  kind  which  formed  the 
intellectual  food  of  the  middle  ages.  People  then 
did  not  ask  for  truth,  but  entertainment,  and  that 
vehement  and  hollow,  full  of  glare  and  startling  events. 
They  asked  for  impossible  voyages,  extravagant  chal- 
lenges, a  racket  of  contests,  a  confusion  of  magnificence 
and  entanglement  of  chances.  For  introspective  history 
they  had  no  liking,  cared  nothing  for  the  adventures  of 
the  heart,  devoted  their  attention  to  the  outside.  They 
remained  children  to  the  last,  with  eyes  glued  to  a  series 
of  exaggerated  and  coloured  images,  and,  for  lack  of 
thinking,  did  not  perceive  that  they  had  learnt  nothing. 
What  was  there  beneath  this  fanciful  dream  ?  Brutal 
and  evil  human  passions,  unchained  at  first  by  religious 
fury,  then  delivered  up  to  their  own  devices,  and, 
beneath  a  show  of  external  courtesy,  as  vile  as  ever. 
Look  at  the  popular  king,  Richard  Creur  de  Lion,  and 
reckon  up  his  butcheries  and  murders :  "  King  Richard," 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  135 

says  a  poem,  "  is  the  best  king  ever  mentioned  in  song."1 
I  have  no  objection ;  but  if  he  has  the  heart  of  a  lion, 
he  has  also  that  brute's  appetite.  One  day,  under  the 
walls  of  Acre,  being  convalescent,  he  had  a  great  desire 
for  some  pork.  There  was  no  pork.  They  killed  a 
young  Saracen,  fresh  and  tender,  cooked  and  salted 
him,  and  the  king  ate  him  and  found  him  very  good ; 
whereupon  he  desired  to  see  the  head  of  the  pig. 
The  cook  brought  it  in  trembling.  The  king  falls  a 
laughing,  and  says  the  army  has  nothing  to  fear  from 
famine,  having  provisions  ready  at  hand.  He  takes 
the  town,  and  presently  Saladin's  ambassadors  come  to 
sue  for  pardon  for  the  prisoners.  Richard  has  thirty 
of  the  most  noble  beheaded,  and  bids  his  cook  boil  the 
heads,  and  serve  one  to  each  ambassador,  with  a  ticket 
bearing  the  name  and  family  of  the  dead  man.  Mean- 
while, in  their  presence,  he  eats  his  own  with  a  relish,  bids 
them  tell  Saladin  how  the  Christians  make  war,  and  ask 
him  if  it  is  true  that  they  fear  him.  Then  he  orders  the 
sixty  thousand  prisoners  to  be  led  into  the  plain : 

"  They  were  led  into  the  place  full  even. 
There  they  heard  angels  of  heaven ; 
They  said  :  "  Seigneures,  tuez,  tuez  ! 
Spares  hem  nought,  and  beheadeth  these  !" 
King  Richard  heard  the  angels'  voice, 
And  thanked  God  and  the  holy  cross." 

Thereupon  they  behead  them  all.  When  he  took  a  town, 
it  was  his  wont  to  murder  every  one,  even  children  and 
women.  Such  was  the  devotion  of  the  middle  ages, 
not  only  in  romances,  as  here,  but  in  history.  At  the 

1  Warton,  i.  123  : 

"  In  Fraunce  these  rhymes  were  wroht, 
Every  Englyshe  ne  knew  it  not" 


136  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

taking  of   Jerusalem    the  whole  population,   seventy- 
thousand  persons,  were  massacred. 

Thus  even  in  chivalrous  stories  the  fierce  and 
unbridled  instincts  of  the  bloodthirsty  brute  break  out. 
The  authentic  narratives  show  it.  Henry  II.  irritated 
at  a  page,  attempted  to  tear  out  his  eyes.1  John 
Lackland  let  twenty-three  hostages  die  in  prison  of 
hunger.  Edward  II.  caused  at  one  time  twenty-eight 
nobles  to  be  hanged  and  disembowelled,  and  was  himself 
put  to  death  by  the  insertion  of  a  red-hot  iron  into  his 
bowels.  Look  in  Froissart  for  the  debaucheries  and  mur- 
ders in  France  as  well  as  in  England,  of  the  Hundred 
Years'  War,  and  then  for  the  slaughters  of  the  Wars  of 
the  Roses.  In  both  countries  feudal  independence  ended 
in  civil  war,  and  the  middle  age  founders  under  its  vices. 
Chivalrous  courtesy,  which  cloaked  the  native  ferocity, 
disappears  like  some  hangings  suddenly  consumed  by 
the  breaking  out  of  a  fire ;  at  that  time  in  England 
they  killed  nobles  in  preference,  and  prisoners  too,  even 
children,  with  insults,  in  cold  blood.  What,  then,  did 
man  learn  in  this  civilisation  and  by  this  literature  ? 
How  was  he  humanised?  What  precepts  of  justice, 
habits  of  reflection,  store  of  true  judgments,  did  this 
culture  interpose  between  his  desires  and  his  actions, 
in  order  to  moderate  his  passion?  He  dreamed,  he 
imagined  a  sort  of  elegant  ceremonial  in  order  the  better 
to  address  lords  and  ladies;  he  discovered  the  gallant 
code  of  little  Jehan  de  Saintre*.  But  where  is  the  true 
education  ?  Wherein  has  Froissart  profited  by  all  his 
vast  experience  ?  He  was  a  fine  specimen  of  a  babbling 
child ;  what  they  called  his  poesy,  the  podsie  neuve,  is 
only  a  refined  gabble,  a  senile  puerility.  Some  rheto- 

1  See  Lingard's  History,  ii.  55,  note  4. — TR. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  137 

ricians,  like  Christine  de  Pisan,  try  to  round  their  periods 
after  an  ancient  model ;  but  all  their  literature  amounts 
to  nothing.  No  one  can  think.  Sir  John  Maundeville, 
who  travelled  all  over  the  world  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  after  Villehardouin,  is  as  contracted  in  his  ideas 
as  Villehardouin  himself.  Extraordinary  legends  and 
fables,  every  sort  of  credulity  and  ignorance,  abound  in 
his  book.  When  he  wishes  to  explain  why  Palestine 
has  passed  into  the  hands  of  various  possessors  instead 
of  continuing  under  one  government,  he  says  that  it  is 
because  God  would  not  that  it  should  continue  longer 
in  the  hands  of  traitors  and  sinners,  whether  Christians 
or  others.  He  has  seen  at  Jerusalem,  on  the  steps  of 
the  temple,  the  footmarks  of  the  ass  which  our  lord  rode 
on  Palm  Sunday.  He  describes  the  Ethiopians  as  a 
people  who  have  only  one  foot,  but  so  large  that  they 
can  make  use  of  it  as  a  parasol.  He  instances  one 
island  "where  be  people  as  big  as  gyants,  of  28  feet 
long,  and  have  no  cloathing  but  beasts'  skins ; "  then 
another  island,  "where  there  are  many  evil  and  foul 
women,  but  have  precious  stones  in  their  eyes,  and 
have  such  force  that  if  they  behold  any  man  with  wrath, 
they  slay  him  with  beholding,  as  the  basilisk  doth." 
The  good  man  relates ;  that  is  all :  doubt  and  common 
sense  scarcely  exist  in  the  world  he  lives  in.  He  has 
neither  judgment  nor  reflection ;  he  piles  facts  one  on 
top  of  another,  with  no  further  connection  ;  his  book  is 
simply  a  mirror  which  reproduces  recollections  of  his 
eyes  and  ears.  "And  all  those  who  will  say  a  Pater 
and  an  Ave  Maria  in  my  behalf,  I  give  them  an  interest 
and  a  share  in  all  the  holy  pilgrimages  I  ever  made  in 
my  life."  That  is  his  farewell,  and  accords  with  all 
the  rest.  Neither  public  morality  nor  public  knowledge 


138  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

has  gained  anything  from  these  three  centuries  of  cul- 
ture. This  French  culture,  copied  in  vain  throughout 
Europe,  has  but  superficially  adorned  mankind,  and  the 
varnish  with  which  it  decked  them,  is  already  tarnished 
everywhere  or  scales  off.  It  was  worse  in  England, 
where  the  thing  was  more  superficial  and  the  application 
worse  than  in  France,  where  foreign  hands  laid  it  on,  and 
where  it  could  only  half  cover  the  Saxon  crust,  where 
that  crust  was  worn  away  and  rough.  That  is  the 
reason  why,  during  three  centuries,  throughout  the  whole 
first  feudal  age,  the  literature  of  the  Normans  in 
England,  made  up  of  imitations,  translations,  and  clumsy 
copies,  ends  in  nothing. 

VI. 

Meantime,  what  has  become  of  the  conquered  people  ? 
Has  the  old  stock,  on  which  the  brilliant  continental 
flowers  were  grafted,  engendered  no  literary  shoot  of  its 
own  ?  Did  it  continue  barren  during  all  this  time  under 
the  Norman  axe,  which  stripped  it  of  all  its  buds  ?  It 
grew  very  feebly,  but  it  grew  nevertheless.  The  subju- 
gated race  is  not  a  dismembered  nation,  dislocated, 
uprooted,  sluggish,  like  the  populations  of  the  Continent, 
which,  after  the  long  Roman  oppression,  were  given  up 
to  the  unrestrained  invasion  of  barbarians ;  it  increased, 
remained  fixed  in  its  own  soil,  full  of  sap :  its  members 
were  not  displaced ;  it  was  simply  lopped  in  order  to 
receive  on  its  crown  a  cluster  of  foreign  branches.  True, 
it  had  suffered,  but  at  last  the  wound  closed,  the  saps 
mingled.  Even  the  hard,  stiff  ligatures  with  which  the 
Conqueror  bound  it,  henceforth  contributed  to  its  fixity 
and  vigour.  The  land  was  mapped  out ;  every  title  veri- 


CHAP.  n.  THE  NORMANS.  139 

fied,  defined  in  writing ; l  every  right  or  tenure  valued ; 
every  mau  registered  as  to  his  locality,  and  also  his  con- 
dition, duties,  descent,  and  resources,  so  that  the  whole 
nation  was  enveloped  in  a  network  of  which  not  a  mesh 
would  break.  Its  future  development  had  to  be  within 
these  limits.  Its  constitution  was  settled,  and  in  this  posi- 
tive and  stringent  enclosure  men  were  compelled  to  un- 
fold themselves  and  to  act.  Solidarity  and  strife ;  these 
were  the  two  effects  of  the  great  and  orderly  establishment 
which  shaped  and  held  together,  on  one  side  the  aristo- 
cracy of  the  conquerors,  on  the  other  the  conquered  people; 
even  as  in  Rome  the  systematic  fusing  of  conquered 
peoples  into  the  plebs,  and  the  constrained  organisation  of 
the  patricians  in  contrast  with  the  plebs,  enrolled  the 
private  individuals  in  two  orders,  whose  opposition  and 
union  formed  the  state.  Thus,  here  as  in  Rome,  the 
national  character  was  moulded  and  completed  by  the 
habit  of  corporate  action,  the  respect  for  written  law, 
political  and  practical  aptitude,  the  development  of 
combative  and  patient  energy.  It  was  the  Domesday 
Book  which,  binding  this  young  society  in  a  rigid  dis- 
cipline, made  of  the  Saxon  the  Englishman  of  our  own 
day. 

Gradually  and  slowly,  amidst  the  gloomy  complain- 
ings of  the  chroniclers,  we  find  the  new  man  fashioned  by 
action,  like  a  child  who  cries  because  steel  stays,  though 
they  improve  his  figure,  give  him  pain.  However 
reduced  and  downtrodden  the  Saxons  were,  they  did  not 

1  Domesday  Book.  Fronde's  Hist,  of  England,  1858,  i.  13  : 
"  Through  all  these  arrangements  a  single  aim  is  visible,  that  every 
man  in  England  should  have'his  definite  place  and  definite  duty  assigned 
to  him,  and  that  no  human  being  should  be  at  liberty  to  lead  at  his  own 
pleasure  an  unaccountable  existence.  The  discipline  of  an  army  was 
transferred  to  the  details  of  social  life." 


140  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  t 

all  sink  into  the  populace.  Some,1  almost  in  every 
county,  remained  lords  of  their  estates,  on  the  condi- 
tion of  doing  homage  for  them  to  the  king.  Many 
became  vassals  of  Norman  barons,  and  remained  proprie- 
tors on  this  condition.  A  greater  number  became 
socagers,  that  is,  free  proprietors,  burdened  with  a  tax, 
but  possessed  of  the  right  of  alienating  their  property ; 
and  the  Saxon  villeins  found  patrons  in  these,  as  the 
plebs  formerly  did  in  the  Italian  nobles  who  were  trans- 
planted to  Rome.  The  patronage  of  the  Saxons  who 
preserved  their  integral  position  was  effective,  for 
they  were  not  isolated :  marriages  from  the  first  united 
the  two  races,  as  it  had  the  patricians  and  plebeians  of 
Eome;2  a  Norman  brother-in-law  to  a  Saxon,  defended 
himself  in  defending  him.  In  those  turbulent  times, 
and  in  an  armed  community,  relatives  and  allies  were 
obliged  to  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  order  to  keep  their 
ground.  After  all,  it  was  necessary  for  the  new-comers 
to  consider  their  subjects,  for  these  subjects  had  the 
heart  and  courage  of  men :  the  Saxons,  like  the  plebeians 
at  Eome,  remembered  their  native  rank  and  their  origi- 
nal independence.  We  can  recognise  it  in  the  complaints 
and  indignation  of  the  chroniclers,  in  the  growling  and 
menaces  of  popular  revolt,  in  the  long  bitterness  with 
which  they  continually  recalled  their  ancient  liberty,  in 

1  Domesday  Book,  "  tenants-in-chief." 

2  According  to  Ailred  (temp.  Hen.  II.),   "  a  king,  many  bishops  and 
abbots,  many  great  earls  and  noble  knights  descended  both  from  English 
and  Norman  blood,  constituted  a  support  to  the  one  and  an  honour  to 
the  other."     "At  present,"  says  another  author  of  the  same  period, 
"  as  the  English  and   Normans  dwell  together,  and  have  constantly 
intermarried,  the  two  nations  are  so  completely  mingled  together,  that 
at  least  as  regards  freemen,  one  can  scarcely  distinguish  who  is  Norman 
and  who  English.  .  .  .  The  villeins  attached  to  the  soil,"  he  says  again, 
•*  are  alone  of  pure  Saxon  blood." 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  HI 

the  favour  with  which  they  cherished  the  daring  and 
rebellion  of  outlaws.  There  were  Saxon  families  at 
the  end  of  the  twelfth  century,  who  had  bound  them- 
selves by  a  perpetual  vow,  to  wear  long  beards  from 
father  to  son  in  memory  of  the  national  custom  and  of 
the  old  country.  Such  men,  even  though  fallen  to  the 
condition  of  socagers,  even  sunk  into  villeins,  had  a 
stiffer  neck  than  the  wretched  colonists  of  the  Continent, 
trodden  down  and  moulded  by  four  centuries  of  Roman 
taxation.  By  their  feelings  as  well  as  by  their  condi- 
tion, they  were  the  broken  remains,  but  also  the  living 
elements,  of  a  free  people.  They  did  not  suffer  the  ex- 
tremities of  oppression.  They  constituted  the  body  of 
the  nation,  the  laborious,  courageous  body  which  supplied 
its  energy.  The  great  barons  felt  that  they  must  rely 
upon  them  in  their  resistance  to  the  king.  Very  soon, 
in  stipulating  for  themselves,  they  stipulated  for  all 
freemen,1  even  for  merchants  and  villeins.  There- 
after "No  merchant  shall  be  dispossessed  of  his  mer- 
chandise, no  villein  of  the  instruments  of  his  labour; 
no  freeman,  merchant,  or  villein  shall  be  taxed  unreason- 
ably for  a  small  crime ;  no  freeman  shall  be  arrested, 
or  imprisoned,  or  disseised  of  his  land,  or  outlawed,  or 
destroyed  in  any  manner,  but  by  the  lawful  judgment  of 
his  peers,  or  by  the  law  of  the  land."  Thus  protected 
they  raise  themselves  and  act.  In  each  county  there 
was  a  court,  where  all  freeholders,  small  or  great,  came  to 
deliberate  about  the  municipal  affairs,  administer  justice, 
and  appoint  tax-assessors.  The  red-bearded  Saxon,  with 
his  clear  complexion  and  great  white  teeth,  came  and 
sate  by  the  Norman's  side ;  these  were  franklins  like  the 
one  whom  Chaucer  describes  : 

1  Magna  Charta,  1215. 


142  THE  SOURCE.  HOOK  I. 

"  A  Frankelein  was  in  this  compagnie ; 
White  was  his  herd,  as  is  the  dayesie. 
Of  his  complexion  he  was  sanguin, 
Wei  loved  he  by  the  morwe  a  sop  in  win. 
To  liven  in  delit  was  ever  his  wone, 
For  he  was  Epicures  owen  sone, 
That  held  opinion  that  plein  delifc 
Was  veraily  felicite  parfite. 
An  housholder,  and  that  a  grete  was  he, 
Seint  Julian  he  was  in  his  contree. 
His  brede,  his  ale,  was  alway  after  on  ; 
A  better  envyned  man  was  no  wher  non. 
Withouten  bake  mete  never  was  his  hous, 
Of  fish  and  flesh,  and  that  so  plenteous, 
It  snewed  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drinke, 
Of  all  deintees  that  men  coud  of  thinke  ; 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yere, 
So  changed  he  his  mete  and  his  soupere. 
Ful  many  a  fat  partrich  had  he  in  mewe, 
And  many  a  breme,  and  many  a  luce  in  stewe. 
Wo  was  his  coke  but  if  his  sauce  were 
Poinant  and  sharpe,  and  redy  all  his  gere. 
His  table,  dormant  in  his  halle  alway 
Stode  redy  covered  alle  the  longe  day. 
At  sessions  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire. 
Ful  often  time  he  was  knight  of  the  shim 
An  anelace  and  a  gipciere  all  of  silk, 
Heng  at  his  girdle,  white  as  morwe  milk. 
A  shereve  hadde  he  ben,  and  a  contour. 
Was  no  wher  swiche  a  worthy  vavasour." 1 

With  him  occasionally  in  the  assembly,  oftenest 
among  the  audience,  were  the  yeomen,  farmers,  foresters, 
tradesmen,  his  fellow-countrymen,  muscular  and  resolute 

1  Chaucer's  Works,  ed.  Sir  H.  Nicholas,  6  vote.,  1845,  Prologue  to 
the  Canterbury  Tales,  ii.  p.  11,1.  333. 


CHAP.  TI.  THE  NORMANS.  143 

men,  not  slow  in  the  defence  of  their  property,  and  in 
supporting  him  who  would  take  their  cause  in  hand, 
with  voice,  fist,  and  weapons.  Is  it  likely  that  the 
discontent  of  such  men  to  whom  the  following  descrip- 
tion applies  could  be  overlooked  ? 

"  The  Miller  was  a  stout  carl  for  the  nones, 
Ful  bigge  he  was  of  braun  and  eke  of  bones ; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over  all  ther  he  came, 
At  wrastling  he  wold  bere  away  the  ram. 
He  was  short  shuldered  brode,  a  thikke  gnarre, 
Ther  n'as  no  dore,  that  he  n'olde  heve  of  barre, 
Or  breke  it  at  a  renning  with  his  hede. 
His  berd  as  any  sowe  or  fox  was  rede, 
And  therto  brode,  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 
Upon  the  cop  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 
A  wert,  and  thereon  stode  a  tufte  of  heres, 
Rede  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres  : 
His  nose-thirles  blacke  were  and  wide. 
A  swerd  and  bokeler  bare  he  by  his  side. 
His  mouth  as  wide  was  as  a  forneis, 
He  was  a  jangler  and  a  goliardeis, 
And  that  was  most  of  sinne,  and  harlotries. 
Wel  coude  he  stelen  corne  and  tollen  thries. 
And  yet  he  had  a  thomb  of  gold  parde. 
A  white  cote  and  a  blew  hode  wered  he. 
A  baggepipe  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  soune, 
And  therwithall  he  brought  us  out  of  toune." ' 

Those  are  the  athletic  forms,  the  square  build,  the 
jolly  John  Bulls  of  the  period,  such  as  we  yet  find  them, 
nourished  by  meat  and  porter,  sustained  by  bodily  ex- 
ercise and  boxing.  These  are  the  men  we  must  keep 
before  us,  if  we  will  understand  how  political  liberty 

1  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales,  iL  p.  17,  1.  547. 


144  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

has  been  established  in  this  country.  Gradually  they 
find  the  simple  knights,  their  colleagues  in  the  county 
court,  too  poor  to  be  present  with  the  great  barons  at 
the  royal  assemblies,  coalescing  with  them.  They  be- 
come united  by  community  of  interests,  by  similarity  of 
manners,  by  nearness  of  condition ;  they  take  them  for 
their  representatives,  they  elect  them.1  They  have  now 
entered  upon  public  life,  and  the  advent  of  a  new  rein- 
forcement, gives  them  a  perpetual  standing  in  their 
changed  condition.  The  towns  laid  waste  by  the  Con- 
quest are  gradually  repeopled.  They  obtain  or  exact 
charters;  the  townsmen  buy  themselves  out  of  the 
arbitrary  taxes  that  were  imposed  on  them ;  they  get 
possession  of  the  land  on  which  their  houses  are  built ; 
they  unite  themselves  under  mayors  and  aldermen. 
Each  town  now,  within  the  meshes  of  the  great  feudal 
net,  is  a  power.  The  Earl  of  Leicester,  rebelling  against 
the  king,  summons  two  burgesses  from  each  town  to 
Parliament,2  to  authorise  and  support  him.  From  that 
time  the  conquered  race,  both  in  country  and  town,  rose 
to  political  life.  If  they  were  taxed,  it  was  with  their 
consent ;  they  paid  nothing  which  they  did  not  agree 
to.  Early  in  the  fourteenth  century  their  united  depu- 
ties composed  the  House  of  Commons ;  and  already,  at 
the  close  of  the  preceding  century,  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  speaking  in  the  name  of  the  king,  said  to 
the  pope,  "  It  is  the  custom  of  the  kingdom  of  England, 
that  in  all  affairs  relating  to  the  state  of  this  kingdom, 
the  advice  of  all  who  are  interested  in  them  should  be 
taken." 

1  From  1214,  and  also  in  1225  and  1254.     Guizot,  Origin  of  the, 
Representative  System  in  England,  pp.  297-299. 
*  In  1264. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  145 

VII. 

If  they  have  acquired  liberties,  it  is  because  they 
have  obtained  them  by  force;  circumstances  have 
assisted,  but  character  has  done  more.  The  protection 
of  the  great  barons  and  the  alliance  of  the  plain  knights 
have  strengthened  them ;  but  it  was  by  their  native 
roughness  and  energy  that  they  maintained  their  inde- 
pendence. Look  at  the  contrast  they  offer  at  this 
moment  to  their  neighbours.  What  occupies  the  mind 
of  the  French  people  ?  The  fabliaux,  the  naughty  tricks 
of  Eeynard,  the  art  of  deceiving  Master  Isengrin,  of 
stealing  his  wife,  of  cheating  him  out  of  his  dinner,  of 
getting  him  beaten  by  a  third  party  without  danger  to 
one's  self;  in  short,  the  triumph  of  poverty  and  clever- 
ness over  power  united  to  folly.  The  popular  hero  is 
already  the  artful  plebeian,  chaffing,  light-hearted,  who, 
later  on,  will  ripen  into  Panurge  and  Figaro,  not  apt  to 
withstand  you  to  your  face,  too  sharp  to  care  for  great 
victories  and  habits  of  strife,  inclined  by  the  nimbleness 
of  his  wit  to  dodge  round  an  obstacle ;  if  he  but  touch 
a  man  with  the  tip  of  his  finger,  that  man  tumbles  into 
the  trap.  But  here  we  have  other  customs :  it  is  Eobin 
Hood,  a  valiant  outlaw,  living  free  and  bold  in  the  green 
forest,  waging  frank  and  open  war  against  sheriff  and 
law.1  If  ever  a  man  was  popular  in  his  country,  it 
was  he.  "  It  is  he,"  says  an  old  historian,  "  whom  the 
common  people  love  so  dearly  to  celebrate  in  games 
and  comedies,  and  whose  history,  sung  by  fiddlers,  inte- 
rests them  more  than  any  other."  In  the  sixteenth 
century  he  still  had  his  commemoration  day,  observed 
by  all  the  people  in  the  small  towns  and  in  the  country. 
Bishop  Latimer,  making  his  pastoral  tour,  announced 

1  Aug.  Thierry,  iv.  56.     Ritson's  Robin  Hood,  1832. 
VOL.  I.  L 


146  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

one  day  that  he  would  preach  in  a  certain  place.  On 
the  morrow,  proceeding  to  the  church,  he  found  the 
doors  closed,  and  waited  more  than  an  hour  before  they 
brought  him  the  key.  At  last  a  man  came  and  said  to 
him,  "  Syr,  thys  ys  a  busye  day  with  us ;  we  cannot 
heare  you:  it  is  Eobyn  Hoodes  Daye.  The  parishe 
are  gone  abrode  to  gather  for  Robyn  Hoode.  ...  I  was 
fayne  there'  to  geve  place  to  Eobyn  Hoode."  l  The 
bishop  was  obliged  to  divest  himself  of  his  ecclesiasti- 
cal garments  and  proceed  on  his  journey,  leaving  his 
place  to  archers  dressed  in  green,  who  played  on  a 
rustic  stage  the  parts  of  Robin  Hood,  Little  John,  and 
their  band.  In  fact,  he  was  the  national  hero.  Saxon 
in  the  first  place,  and  waging  war  against  the  men  of 
law,  against  bishops  and  archbishops,  whose  sway  was 
so  heavy ;  generous,  moreover,  giving  to  a  poor  ruined 
knight  clothes,  horse,  and  money  to  buy  back  the  land 
he  had  pledged  to  a  rapacious  abbot ;  compassionate  too, 
and  kind  to  the  poor,  enjoining  his  men  not  to  injure 
yeomen  and  labourers ;  but  above  all  rash,  bold,  proud, 
who  would  go  and  draw  his  bow  before  the  sheriffs  eyes 
and  to  his  face ;  ready  with  blows,  whether  to  give  or 
take.  He  slew  fourteen  out  of  fifteen  foresters  who 
came  to  arrest  him ;  he  slays  the  sheriff,  the  judge,  the 
town  gatekeeper ;  he  is  ready  to  slay  as  many  more  as 
like  to  come ;  and  all  this  joyously,  jovially,  like  an 
honest  fellow  who  eats  well,  has  a  hard  skin,  lives  in 
the  open  air,  and  revels  in  animal  life. 

"  In  somer  when  the  shawes  be  sheyne, 

And  leves  be  large  and  long, 
Hit  is  fulle  mery  in  feyre  foreste 

To  here  the  foulys  song." 
1  Latimer's  Sermons,  ed.  Arber,  6th  Sermon,  1869,  p.  173. 


CHAP.  IL  THE  NORMANS.  147 

That  is  how  many  ballads  begin ;  and  the  fine  weather, 
which  makes  the  stags  and  oxen  butt  with  their  horns, 
inspires  them  with  the  thought  of  exchanging  blows 
with  sword  or  stick.  Robin  dreamed  that  two  yeomen 
were  thrashing  him,  and  he  wants  to  go  and  find  them, 
angrily  repelling  Little  John,  who  offers  to  go  first : 

"  Ah  John,  by  me  thou  settest  noe  store, 

And  that  I  farley  finde : 
How  offt  send  I  my  men  before, 
And  tarry  myselfe  behinde? 

"  It  is  no  cunnin  a  knave  to  ken, 

An  a  man  but  heare  him  speake  , 
An  it  were  not  for  bursting  of  my  bowe, 
John,  I  thy  head  wold  breake."  1.     .     . 

He  goes  alone,  and  meets  the  robust  yeoman,  Guy  of 
Gisborne : 

"  He  that  had  neyther  beene  kythe  nor  kin, 

Might  have  seen  a  full  fayre  fight, 
To  see  how  together  these  yeomen  went 
With  blades  both  browne  and  bright, 

"  To  see  how  these  yeoinen  together  they  fought 

Two  howres  of  a  summer's  day ; 
Yett  neither  Robin  Hood  nor  sir  Guy 
Them  fettled  to  flye  away."  2 

You  see  Guy  the  yeoman  is  as  brave  as  Robin  Hood ; 
he  came  to  seek  him  in  the  wood,  and  drew  the  bow 
abnost  as  well  as  he.  This  old  popular  poetry  is  not 
the  praise  of  a  single  bandit,  but  of  an  entire  class,  the 
yeomanry.  "  God  haffe  mersey  on  Robin  Hodys  solle, 

1  Bitsou,  Robin  Hood  Ballads,  L  iv.  v.  41-48. 
3  Ibid.  v.  145-152. 


148  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

and  saffe  all  god  yemaury."  That  is  how  many  ballads 
end.  The  brave  yeoman,  inured  to  blows,  a  good  archer, 
clever  at  sword  and  stick,  is  the  favourite.  There  were 
also  redoubtable,  armed  townsfolk,  accustomed  to  make 
use  of  their  arms.  Here  they  are  at  work : 

"  '  0  that  were  a  shame,'  said  jolly  Robin, 

'  We  being  three,  and  thou  but  one,' 
The  pinder1  leapt  back  then  thirty  good  foot, 
'Twas  thirty  good  foot  and  one. 

"  He  leaned  his  back  fast  unto  a  thorn, 

And  his  foot  against  a  stone, 
And  there  he  fought  a  long  summer's  day, 
A  summer's  day  so  long. 

"  Till  that  their  swords  on  their  broad  bucklers 
Were  broke  fast  into  their  hands."  2 

Often  even  Robin  does  not  get  the  advantage : 

"  '  I  pass  not  for  length,"  bold  Arthur  reply'd, 

'  My  staff  is  of  oke  so  free  ; 
Eight  foot  and  a  half,  it  will  knock  down  a  calf, 
And  I  hope  it  will  knock  down  thee.' 

"  Then  Robin  could  no  longer  forbear, 

He  gave  him  such  a  knock, 
Quickly  and  soon  the  blood  came  down 
Before  it  was  ten  a  clock. 

"  Then  Arthur  he  soon  recovered  himself, 

And  gave  him  such  a  knock  on  the  crown, 
That  from  every  side  of  bold  Robin  Hood's  head 
The  blood  came  trickling  down. 

1  A  pinder's  task  was  to  pin  the  sheep  in  the  fold,  cattle  in  the  peu- 
fold  or  pound  (Richardson). — TR. 
8  Ritson,  ii.  3,  v.  17-26, 


OHAP.  11.  THE  NORMANS.  140 

"  Then  Robiii  raged  like  a  wild  boar, 

As  soon  as  he  saw  his  own  blood  : 
Then  Bland  was  in  hast,  he  laid  on  so  fast, 
As  though  he  had  been  cleaving  of  wood. 

"  And  about  and  about  and  about  they  went, 

Like  two  wild  bores  in  a  chase, 
Striving  to  aim  each  other  to  maim, 
Leg,  arm,  or  any  other  place. 

"  And  knock  for  knock  they  lustily  dealt, 
Which  held  for  two  hours  and  more, 
Till  all  the  wood  rang  at  every  bang. 
They  ply'd  their  work  so  sore. 

"  '  Hold  thy  hand,  hold  thy  hand,'  said  Robin  Hood, 

And  let  thy  quarrel  fall ; 
For  here  we  may  thrash  our  bones  all  to  inesh, 
And  get  no  coyn  at  all. 

"  *  And  in  the  forrest  of  merry  Sherwood, 

Hereafter  thou  shalt  be  free.' 
'  God  a  mercy  for  nought,  my  freedom  I  bought, 
I  may  thank  my  staff,  and  not  thee.'  "  x  .     . 

"  Who  are  you,  then  ?  "  says  Kobin : 

t 
"  '  I  am  a  tanner,'  bold  Arthur  repl/d, 

'  In  Nottingham  long  I  have  wrought ; 
And  if  thou'lt  come  there,  I  vow  and  swear, 
I  will  tan  thy  hide  for  nought'  " 

u  '  God  a  mercy,  good  fellow,'  said  jolly  Robin, 

'  Since  thou  art  so  kind  and  free  ; 
And  if  thou  wilt  tan  my  hide  for  nought^ 
I  will  do  as  much  for  thee.' "  2 

1  Kitwn,  ii.  6,  ».  58-89.  2  Ibid.  v.  94-101. 


150  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

With  these  generous  offers,  they  embrace ;  a  free  ex- 
change of  honest  blows  always  prepares  the  way  for 
friendship.  It  was  so  Eobin  Hood  tried  Little  John, 
whom  he  loved  all  his  life  after.  Little  John  was 
seven  feet  high,  and  being  on  a  bridge,  would  not  give 
way.  Honest  Robin  would  not  use  his  bow  against 
him,  but  went  and  cut  a  stick  seven  feet  long;  and 
they  agreed  amicably  to  fight  on  the  bridge  until  one 
should  fall  into  the  water.  They  fall  to  so  merrily 
that  "their  bones  ring."  In  the  end  Eobin  falls, 
and  he  feels  only  the  more  respect  for  Little  John. 
Another  time,  having  a  sword  with  him,  he  was  thrashed 
by  a  tinker  who  had  only  a  stick.  Full  of  admiration, 
he  gives  him  a  hundred  pounds.  Again  he  was  thrashed 
by  a  potter,  who  refused  him  toll ;  then  by  a  shepherd. 
They  fight  to  wile  away  time.  Even  now-a-days  boxers 
give  each  other  a  friendly  grip  before  setting  to ;  they 
knock  one  another  about  in  this  country  honourably, 
without  malice,  fury,  or  shame.  Broken  teeth,  black 
eyes,  smashed  ribs,  do  not  call  for  murderous  vengeance : 
it  would  seem  that  the  bones  are  more  solid  and  the 
nerves  less  sensitive  in  England  than  elsewhere.  Blows 
once  exchanged,  they  take  each  other  by  the  hand,  and 
dance  together  on  the  green  grass ; 

"  Then  Robin  took  them  both  by  the  hands, 
And  danc'd  round  about  the  oke  tree. 

'  For  three  merry  men,  and  three  merry  men, 
And  three  merry  men  we  be.'  " 

Moreover,  these  people,  in  each  parish,  practised  the 
bow  every  Sunday,  and  were  the  best  archers  in  the 
world;  from  the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century 
the  general  emancipation  of  the  villeins  multiplied 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  151 

their  number  greatly,  and  you  can  now  understand 
how,  amidst  all  the  operations  and  changes  of  the  great 
central  powers,  the  liberty  of  the  subject  survived. 
After  all,  the  only  permanent  and  unalterable  guarantee, 
in  every  country  and  under  every  constitution,  is  this 
unspoken  declaration  in  the  heart  of  the  mass  of  the 
people,  which  is  well  understood  on  all  sides  :  "  If  any 
man  touches  my  property,  enters  my  house,  obstructs  or 
molests  me,  let  him  beware.  I  have  patience,  but  I 
have  also  strong  arms,  good  comrades,  a  good  blade,  and, 
on  occasion,  a  firm  resolve,  happen  what  may,  to  plunge 
my  blade  up  to  its  hilt  in  his  throat." 

VIII. 

Thus  thought  Sir  John  Fortescue,  Chancellor  of  England 
under  Henry  VI.,  exiled  in  France  during  the  Wars  of 
the  Roses,  one  of  the  oldest  prose-writers,  and  the  first 
who  weighed  and  explained  the  constitution  of  his 
country.1  He  says : 

"  It  is  cowardise  and  lack  of  hartes  and  corage  that  kepeth 
the  Frenchmen  from  rysyng,  and  not  povertye  ;  2  which  corage 
no  Frenche  man  hath  like  to  the  English  man.  It  hath  ben 
often  seen  in  Englond  that  iij  or  iv  thefes,  for  povertie,  hath 
sett  upon  vij  or  viij  true  men,  and  robbyd  them  al.  But  it 
hath  not  ben  seen  in  Fraunce,  that  vij  or  viij  thefes  have  ben 
hardy  to  robbe  iij  or  iv  true  men.  Wherfor  it  is  right  seld 
that  Frenchmen  be  hangyd  for  robberye,  for  that  they  have  no 
hertys  to  do  so  terryble  an  acte.  There  be  therfor  mo  men 

1  The  Difference  between  an  Absolute  and  Limited  Monarchy — A 
learned  Commendation  of  the  Politic  Laws  of  England  (Latin).     I  fre- 
quently quote  from  the  second  work,  which  is  more  full  and  complete". 

2  The  courage  which  finds  utterance  here  is  coarse  ;  the   English 
instincts  are  combative  and  independent.    The  French  race,  and  the 
Gauls  generally,  are  perhaps  the  most  reckless  of  life  of  any. 


152  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

hangyd  in  Englond,  in  a  yere,  for  robberye  and  manslaughter, 
than  ther  be  hangid  in  Fraunce  for  such  cause  of  crime  in  vij 
yers."1 

This  throws  a  startling  and  terrible  light  on  the  violent 
condition  of  this  armed  community,  where  sudden 
attacks  are  an  everyday  matter,  and  every  one,  rich  and 
poor,  lives  with  his  hand  on  his  sword.  There  were 
great  bands  of  malefactors  under  Edward  I.,  who  infested 
the  country,  and  fought  with  those  who  came  to  seize 
them.  The  inhabitants  of  the  towns  were  obliged  to 
gather  together  with  those  of  the  neighbouring  towns, 
with  hue  and  cry,  to  pursue  and  capture  them.  Under 
Edward  III.  there  were  barons  who  rode  about  with 
armed  escorts  and  archers,  seizing  the  manors,  carrying 
off  ladies  and  girls  of  high  degree,  mutilating,  killing, 
extorting  ransoms  from  people  in  their  own  houses,  as 
if  they  were  in  an  enemy's  land,  and  sometimes  coming 
before  the  judges  at  the  sessions  in  such  guise  and  in 
so  great  force  that  the  judges  were  afraid  and  dared  not 
administer  justice.2  Bead  the  letters  of  the  Paston 
family,  under  Henry  VI.  and  Edward  IV.,  and  you  will 
see  how  private  war  was  at  every  door,  how  it  was 
necessary  for  a  man  to  provide  himself  with  men  and 
arms,  to  be  on  the  alert  for  defence  of  his  property,  to  be 
self-reliant,  to  depend  on  his  own  strength  and  courage. 
It  is  this  excess  of  vigour  and  readiness  to  fight  which, 
after  their  victories  in  France,  set  them  against  one 
another  in  England,  in  the  butcheries  of  the  Wars  of 

1  The  Difference,  etc.,  3d  ed.  1724,  ch.  xiii.  p.  98.  There  are  now-a- 
days  in  France  42  highway  robberies  as  against  738  in  England.  In 
1843,  there  were  in  England  four  times  as  many  accusations  of  crimes 
and  offences  as  in  France,  having  regard  to  the  number  of  inhabitants 
(Moreau  de  Jonnes). 

*  Statute  of  Winchester,  1285  ;  Ordinance  of  1378. 


CHAP.  n.  THE  NORMANS.  153 

the  Roses.  The  strangers  who  saw  them  were  astonished 
at  their  bodily  strength  and  courage,  at  the  great  pieces 
of  beef  "  which  feed  their  muscles,  at  their  military 
habits,  their  fierce  obstinacy,  as  of  savage  beasts."1 
They  are  like  their  bulldogs,  an  untameable  race,  who 
in  their  mad  courage  "  cast  themselves  with  shut  eyes 
into  the  den  of  a  Eussian  bear,  and  get  their  head 
broken  like  a  rotten  apple."  This  strange  condition  of 
a  militant  community,  so  full  of  danger,  and  requiring 
so  much  effort,  does  not  make  them  afraid.  King 
Edward  having  given  orders  to  send  disturbers  of  the 
peace  to  prison  without  legal  proceedings,  and  not  to 
liberate  them,  on  bail  or  otherwise,  the  Commons 
declared  the  order  "horribly  vexatious;"  resist  it,  re- 
fuse to  be  too  much  protected.  Less  peace,  but  more 
independence.  They  maintain  the  guarantees  of  the 
subject  at  the  expense  of  public  security,  and  prefer 
turbulent  liberty  to  arbitrary  order.  Better  suffer 
marauders  whom  they  could  fight,  than  magistrate  under 
whom  they  would  have  to  bend. 

This  proud  and  persistent  notion  gives  rise  to,  and 
fashions  Fortescue's  whole  work : 

"  Ther  be  two  kynds  of  kyngdomys,  of  the  which  that  one  ys  a 
lordship  callid  in  Latyne  Dominium  regale,  and  that  other  is 
callid  Dominium  politicum  et  regale." 

The  first  is  established  in  France,  and  the  second  in 
England. 

"  And  they  dyversen  in  that  the  first  may  rule  his  people  by 
such  lawys  as  he  makyth  hymself,  and  therefor,  he  may  set  upon 
them  talys,  and  other  impositions,  such  as  he  wyl  hymself,  with- 

1  Benvenuto  Cellini,  quoted  by  Froude,  i.  20,  Hist,  of  England. 
Shakspeare,  Henry  V.  :  conversation  of  French  lords  before  the  battle 
of  Agiucourt. 


154  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

out  their  assent.  The  secund  may  not  rule  hys  people  by  other 
laws  than  such  as  they  asseuten  unto ;  aiid  therfor  he  may  set 
upon  them  non  impositions  without  their  own  assent." l 

In  a  state  like  this,  the  will  of  the  people  is  the  prime 
element  of  life.  Sir  John  Fortescue  says  further : 

"  A  king  of  England  cannot  at  his  pleasure  make  any  altera- 
tions in  the  laws  of  the  land,  for  the  nature  of  his  government 
is  not  only  regal,  but  political." 

"  In  the  body  politic,  the  first  thing  which  lives  and  moves 
is  the  intention  of  the  people,  having  in  it  the  blood,  that  is, 
the  prudential  care  and  provision  for  the  public  good,  which  it 
transmits  and  communicates  to  the  head,  as  to  the  principal 
part,  and  to  all  the  rest  of  the  members  of  the  said  body  politic, 
whereby  it  subsists  and  is  invigorated.  The  law  under  which 
the  people  is  incorporated  may  be  compared  to  the  nerves  or 
sinews  of  the  body  natural.  .  .  .  And  as  the  bones  and  all 
the  other  members  of  the  body  preserve  their  functions  and  dis- 
charge their  several  offices  by  the  nerves,  so  do  the  members  of 
the  community  by  the  law.  And  as  the  head  of  the  body 
natural  cannot  change  its  nerves  or  sinews,  cannot  deny  to  the 
several  parts  their  proper  energy,  their  due  proportion  and  ali- 
ment of  blood,  neither  can  a  king  who  is  the  head  of  the  body 
politic  change  the  laws  thereof,  nor  take  from  the  people  what 
is  theirs  by  right,  against  their  consents.  .  .  .  For  he  is 
appointed  to  protect  his  subjects  in  their  lives,  properties,  and 
laws,  for  this  very  end  and  purpose  he  has  the  delegation  of 
power  from  the  people." 

Here  we  have  all  the  ideas  of  Locke  in  the  fifteenth 
century ;  so  powerful  is  practice  to  suggest  theory  !  so 
quickly  does  man  discover,  in  the  enjoyment  of  liberty, 
the  nature  of  liberty  !  Fortescue  goes  further ;  he  con- 
trasts, step  by  step,  the  Roman  law,  that  inheritance  of  all 

1  The  Di/erence,  etc.,  p.  L 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  155 

Latin  peoples,  with  the  English  law,  that  heritage  of  all 
Teutonic  peoples  :  one  the  work  of  absolute  princes,  and 
tending  altogether  to  the  sacrifice  of  the  individual ; 
the  other  the  work  of  the  common  will,  tending 
altogether  to  protect  the  person.  He  contrasts  the 
maxims  of  the  imperial  jurisconsults,  who  accord  "force 
of  law  to  all  which  is  determined  by  the  prince,"  with 
the  statutes  of  England,  which  "are  not  enacted  by  the 
sole  will  of  the  prince,  .  .  .  but  with  the  concurrent 
consent  of  the  whole  kingdom,  by  their  representatives 
in  Parliament,  .  .  .  more  than  three  hundred  select 
persons."  He  contrasts  the  arbitrary  nomination  of 
imperial  officers  with  the  election  of  the  sheriff,  and 
says: 

"  There  is  in  every  county  a  certain  officer,  called  the  king's 
sheriff,  who,  amongst  other  duties  of  his  office,  executes  within 
his  county  all  mandates  and  judgments  of  the  king's  courts  of 
justice :  he  is  an  annual  officer ;  and  it  is  not  lawful  for  him, 
after  the  expiration  of  his  year,  to  continue  to  act  in  his  said 
office,  neither  shall  he  be  taken  in  again  to  execute  the  said 
office  within  two  years  thence  next  ensuing.  The  manner  of 
his  election  is  thus :  Every  year,  on  the  morrow  of  All-Souls, 
there  meet  in  the  King's  Court  of  Exchequer  all  the  king's 
counsellors,  as  well  lords  spiritual  and  temporal,  as  all  other  the 
king's  justices,  all  the  barons  of  the  Exchequer,  the  Master  of 
the  Rolls,  and  certain  other  officers,  when  all  of  them,  by  com- 
mon consent,  nominate  three  of  every  county  knights  or  esquires, 
persons  of  distinction,  and  such  as  they  esteem  fittest  qualified 
to  bear  the  office  of  sheriff  of  that  county  for  the  year  ensuing. 
The  king  only  makes  choice  of  one  out  of  the  three  so  nominated 
and  returned,  who,  in  virtue  of  the  king's  letters  patent,  is  con- 
stituted High  Sheriff  of  that  county." 

He  contrasts  the  Roman  procedure,  which  is  satisfied 


156  THE  SOUKCE.  BOOK  i. 

with  two  witnesses  to  condemn  a  man,  with  the  juiy, 
the  three  permitted  challenges,  the  admirable  guarantees 
of  justice  with  which  the  uprightness,  number,  repute, 
and  condition  of  the  juries  surround  the  sentence. 
About  the  juries  he  says  : 

"  Twelve  good  and  true  men  being  sworn,  as  in  the  manner 
above  related,  legally  qualified,  that  is,  having,  over  and  besides 
their  moveables,  possessions  in  land  sufficient,  as  was  said, 
wherewith  to  maintain  their  rank  and  station  ;  neither  inspected 
by,  nor  at  variance  with  either  of  the  parties ;  all  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood; there  shall  be  read  to  them,  in  English,  by  the 
Court,  the  record  and  nature  of  the  plea." l 

Thus  protected,  the  English  commons  cannot  be  other 
than  flourishing.  Consider,  on  the  other  hand,  he  says 
to  the  young  prince  whom  he  is  instructing,  the  condi- 
tion of  the  commons  in  France.  By  their  taxes,  tax  on 
salt,  on  wine,  billeting  of  soldiers,  they  are  reduced  to 
great  misery.  You  have  seen  them  on  your  travels. . . . 

"  The  same  Commons  be  so  impoverishid  and  distroyyd,  that 
they  may  unneth  lyve.  Thay  drink  water,  thay  eate  apples, 
with  bred  right  brown  made  of  rye.  They  eate  no  fleshe,  but 
if  it  be  selden,  a  litill  larde,  or  of  the  entrails  or  beds  of  bests 
sclayne  for  the  nobles  and  merchants  of  the  land.  They  weryn 
no  wollyn,  but  if  it  be  a  pore  cote  under  their  uttermost  garment, 
made  of  grete  canvass,  and  cal  it  a  frok.  Their  hosyn  be  of 
like  canvas,  and  passen  not  their  knee,  wherfor  they  be  gartrid 
and  their  thyghs  bare.  Their  wifs  and  children  gone  bare  fote. 

1  The  original  of  this  very  famous  treatise,  de  Laiulibus  Legum 
Anglite,  was  written  in  Latin  between  1464  and  1470,  first  published  in 
1537,  and  translated  into  English  in  1775  by  Francis  Gregor.  I  have 
taken  these  extracts  from  the  magnificent  edition  of  Sir  John  Fortescue's 
works  published  in  1869  for  private  distribution,  and  edited  by  Thomas 
Fortescue,  Lord  Clermont.  Some  of  the  pieces  quoted,  left  in  the  old 
spelling,  are  taken  from  an  older  edition,  translated  by  Robert  Mulcastet 
in  1667.— TK. 


CHAP.  IL  THE  NORMANS.  157 

.  .  .  For  sum  of  them,  that  was  wonte  to  pay  to  his  lord  for  his 
tenement  which  he  hyrith  by  the  year  a  scute  payth  now  to  the 
kyng,  over  that  scute,  fyve  skuts.  Wher  thrugh  they  be  artyd 
Uy  necessite  so  to  watch,  labour  and  grub  in  the  ground  for  their 
.sustenance,  that  their  nature  is  much  wasted,  and  the  kynd  of 
them  brought  to  nowght.  Thay  gone  crokyd  and  ar  feeble,  not 
able  to  fight  nor  to  defend  the  realm  ;  nor  they  have  wepon,  nor 
monye  to  buy  them  wepon  withal.  .  .  .  This  is  the  frute  first 
of  hyre  Jus  regale.  .  .  .  But  blessed  be  God,  this  land  ys  rulid 
under  a  better  lawe,  and  therfor  the  people  therof  be  not  in  such 
penurye,  nor  therby  hurt  in  their  persons,  but  they  be  wealthie 
and  have  all  things  necessarie  to  the  sustenance  of  nature. 
Wherefore  they  be  myghty  and  able  to  resyste  the  adversaries 
of  the  realms  that  do  or  will  do  them  wrong.  Loo,  this  is  the 
frut  of  Jus  politicum  et  regale,  under  which  we  lyve."1  "  Everye 
inhabiter  of  the  realme  of  England  useth  and  enjoyeth  at  his 
pleasure  all  the  fruites  that  his  land  or  cattel  beareth,  with  al 
the  profits  and  commodities  which  by  his  owne  travayle,  or  by 
the  labour  of  others,  hae  gaineth ;  not  hindered  by  the  iniurie 
or  wrong  deteinement  of  anye  man,  but  that  hee  shall  bee 
allowed  a  reasonable  recompence.2  .  .  .  Hereby  it  commeth  to 
passe  that  the  men  of  that  lande  are  riche,  havyng  aboundaunce 
of  golde  and  silver,  and  other  thinges  necessarie  for  the  main- 
tenaunce  of  man's  life.  They  drinke  no  water,  unless  it  be  so, 
that  some  for  devotion,  and  uppon  a  zeale  of  penaunce,  doe  ab- 
staine  from  other  drinks.  They  eate  plentifully  of  all  kindes  of 
fleshe  and  fishe.  They  weare  fine  woollen  cloth  in  all  their 
apparel ;  they  have  also  aboundaunce  of  bed-coveringes  in  their 
houses,  and  of  all  other  woollen  stuffe.  They  have  greate  store 
of  all  hustlementes  and  implementes  of  householde,  they  are 
plentifully  furnished  with  al  instruments  of  husbandry,  and  all 
other  things  that  are  requisite  to  the  accomplishment  of  a  quiet 
and  wealthy  lyfe,  according  to  their  estates  and  degrees.  Neither 

1  Of  an  Absolute  and  Limited  Monarchy,  3d  ed.,  1724,  ch.  iii,  p.  15. 
2  Commiiies  bears  the  same  testimony. 


168  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

are  they  sued  in  the  lawe,  but  onely  before  ordinary  iudges, 
where  by  the  lawes  of  the  lande  they  are  iustly  in  treated. 
Neither  are  they  arrested  or  impleaded  for  their  moveables  or 
possessions,  or  arraigned  of  any  offence,  bee  it  never  so  great  and 
outragious,  but  after  the  lawes  of  the  land,  and  before  the  iudges 
aforesaid."1 

All  this  arises  from  the  constitution  of  the  country 
and  the  distribution  of  the  land.  Whilst  in  other 
countries  we  find  only  a  population  of  paupers,  with 
here  and  there  a  few  lords,  England  is  covered  and  filled 
with  owners  of  lands  and  fields ;  so  that  "  therein  so 
small  a  thorpe  cannot  bee  founde,  wherein  dwelleth  not 
a  knight,  an  esquire,  or  suche  a  housholder  as  is  there 
commonly  called  a  franklayne,  enryched  with  greate 
possessions.  And  also  other  freeholders,  and  many  yeo- 
men able  for  their  livelodes  to  make  a  jurye  in  fourme 
afore-mentioned.  For  there  bee  in  that  lande  divers 
yeomen,  which  are  able  to  dispend  by  the  yeare  above 
a  hundred  poundes." 2  Harrison  says : 3 

1  De  Laudibus,  etc.,  ch.  xxxvi. 

*  "  The  might  of  the  realme  most  stondyth  upon  archers  which  be 
not  rich  men."     Compare  Hall  am,  ii.  482.     All  this  takes  us  back  as 
far  as  the  Conquest,  and  farther.     "  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
greater  part  of  those  who  appear  to  have  possessed  small  freeholds  or 
parcels  of  manors  were  no  other  than  the  original  nation.  ...  A 
respectable  class  of  free  socagers,  having  in  general  full  right  of  alien- 
ating then*  lands,  and  holding  them  probably  at  a  small  certain  rent 
from  the  lord  of  the  manor,  frequently  occurs  in  the  Domesday  Book." 
At  all  events,  there  were  in  Domesday  Book  Saxons  "  perfectly  exempt 
from  villenage."    This  class  is  mentioned  with  respect  in  the  treatises 
of  Glanvil  and  Bracton.      As  for  the  villeins,  they  were  quickly  liber- 
ated in  the  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  century,  either  by  their  own  energies 
or  by  becoming  copyholders.     The  Wars  of  the  Roses  still   further 
raised  the  commons  ;  orders  were  frequently  issued,  previous  to  a  battle, 
to  slay  the  nobles  and  spare  the  commoners. 

*  Description  of  England,  275. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  159 

"  This  sort  of  people,  have  more  estimation  than  labourers 
and  the  common  sort  of  artificers,  and  these  cornmonlie  live 
wealthilie,  keepe  good  houses,  and  travell  to  get  riches.  They 
are  for  the  most  part  farmers  to  gentlemen,"  and  keep  servants 
of  their  own.  "  These  were  they  that  in  times  past  made  all 
France  afraid.  And  albeit  they  be  not  called  master,  as  gentle- 
men are,  or  sir,  as  to  knights  apperteineth,  but  onelie  John  and 
Thomas,  etc.,  yet  have  they  beene  found  to  have  done  verie  good 
service;  and  the  kings  of  England,  in  foughten  battels,  were 
wont  to  remaine  among  them  (who  were  their  footmen)  as  the 
French  kings  did  among  their  horssemen :  the  prince  thereby 
showing  where  his  chiefs  strength  did  consist." 

Such  men,  says  Fortescue,  might  form  a  legal  jury,  and 
vote,  resist,  be  associated,  do  everything  wherein  a  free 
government  consists :  for  they  were  numerous  in  every 
district ;  they  were  not  down-trodden  like  the  timid 
peasants  of  France ;  they  had  their  honour  and  that  of 
their  family  to  maintain ;  "  they  be  well  provided  with 
arms  ;  they  remember  that  they  have  won  battles  in 
France."  :  Such  is  the  class,  still  obscure,  but  more 

1  The  following  is  a  portrait  of  a  yeoman,  by  Latimer,  in  the  first 
sermon  preached  before  Edward  VI.,  8th  March  1549  :  "My  father  was 
a  yeoman,  and  had  no  lands  of  his  own  ;  only  he  had  a  farm  of  £3  or 
£4  by  year  at  the  uttermost,  and  hereupon  he  tilled  so  much  as  kept 
half-a-dozen  men.  He  had  walk  for  a  hundred  sheep,  and  my  mother 
milked  thirty  kine.  He  was  able,  and  did  find  the  king  a  harness,  with 
himself  and  his  horse  ;  while  he  came  to  the  place  that  he,  should 
receive  the  king's  wages.  I  can  remember  that  I  buckled  his  harness 
when  he  went  unto  Blackheath  field.  He  kept  me  to  school,  or  else  I 
had  not  been  able  to  have  preached  before  the  King's  Majesty  now. 
He  married  my  sisters  with  £5  or  20  nobles  a-piece,  so  that  he  brought 
them  np  in  godliness  and  fear  of  God  ;  he  kept  hospitality  for  his  poor 
neighbours,  and  some  alms  he  gave  to  the  poor  ;  and  all  this  did  he  of 
the  said  farm.  Where  he  that  now  hath  it  payeth  £16  by  the  year,  or 
more,  and  is  not  able  to  do  anything  for  his  prince,  for  himself,  nor  for 
his  children,  or  give  a  cup  of  drink  to  the  poor." 

This  is  from  the  sixth  sermon,  preached  before  the  young  king,  12th 


160  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

rich  and  powerful  every  century,  which,  founded  by  the 
down-trodden  Saxon  aristocracy,  and  sustained  by  the 
surviving  Saxon  character,  ended,  under  the  lead  of  the 
inferior  Norman  nobility,  and  under  the  patronage  of 
the  superior  Norman  nobility,  in  establishing  and  settling 
a  free  constitution,  and  a  nation  worthy  of  liberty. 

IX. 

When,  as  here,  men  are  endowed  with  a  serious 
character,  have  a  resolute  spirit,  and  possess  independent 
habits,  they  deal  with  their  conscience  as  with  their 
daily  business,  and  end  by  laying  hands  on  church 
as  well  as  state.  Already  for  a  long  time  the  ex- 
actions of  the  Roman  See  had  provoked  the  resistance 
of  the  people, l  and  the  higher  clergy  became  unpopular. 
Men  complained  that  the  best  livings  were  given  by 
the  Pope  to  non-resident  strangers ;  that  some  Italian, 
unknown  in  England,  possessed  fifty  or  sixty  benefices 
in  England ;  that  English  money  poured  into  Rome ; 
and  that  the  clergy,  being  judged  only  by  clergy,  gave 
themselves  up  to  their  vices,  and  abused  their  state 
of  immunity.  In  the  first  years  of  Henry  III.'s  reign 
there  were  nearly  a  hundred  murders  committed  by 
priests  then  alive.  At  the  beginning  of  the  four- 
teenth century  the  ecclesiastical  revenue  was  twelve 

April  1549  :  "In  my  time  my  poor  father  was  as  diligent  to  teach  me 
to  shoot  as  to  learn  (me)  any  other  thing  ;  and  so,  I  think,  other  men 
did  their  children.  He  taught  me  how  to  draw,  how  to  lay  my  body 
in  my  bow,  and  not  to  draw  with  strength  of  arms,  as  other  nations  do, 
but  with  strength  of  the  body.  I  had  my  bows  bought  me  according 
to  my  age  and  strength  ;  as  I  increased  in  them,  so  my  bows  were 
made  bigger  and  bigger  ;  for  men  shall  never  shoot  well  except  they  be 
brought  up  in  it.  It  is  a  goodly  art,  a  wholesome  kind  of  exercise,  and 
much  commended  in  physic." 

1  In  1246,  1376.     Thierry,  iii.  79. 


V-I.  P-i6o. 


JOHN   WICLIF 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  161 

times  greater  than  the  civil ;  about  half  the  soil  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  clergy.  At. the  end  of  the  century  the 
commons  declared  that  the  taxes  paid  to  the  church 
were  five  times  greater  than  the  taxes  paid  to  the  crown  ; 
and  some  years  afterwards,1  considering  that  the  wealth 
of  the  clergy  only  served  to  keep  them  in  idleness  and 
luxury,  they  proposed  to  confiscate  it  for  the  public  bene- 
fit. Already  the  idea  of  the  Eeformation  had  forced 
itself  upon  them.  They  remembered  how  in  the  ballads 
Eobin  Hood  ordered  his  folk  to  spare  the  yeomen, 
labourers,  even  knights,  if  they  are  good  fellows,  but 
never  to  let  abbots  or  bishops  escape.  The  prelates 
were  grievously  oppressing  the  people  by  means  of  their 
privileges,  ecclesiastical  courts,  and  tithes ;  when  sud- 
denly, amid  the  pleasant  banter  or  the  monotonous 
babble  of  the  Norman  versifiers,  we  hear  the  indignant 
voice  of  a  Saxon,  a  man  of  the  people  and  a  victim  of 
oppression,  thundering  against  them. 

It  is  the  vision  of  Piers  Ploughman,  written,  it  is 
supposed,  by  a  secular  priest  of  Oxford.2  Doubtless 
the  traces  of  French  taste  are  perceptible.  It  could 
not  be  otherwise :  the  people  from  below  can  never 
quite  prevent  themselves  from  imitating  the  people 
above ;  and  the  most  unshackled  popular  poets,  Burns 
and  Beranger,  too  often  preserve  an  academic  style.  (  So 
here  a  fashionable  machinery,  the  allegory  of  the  Roman 
de  la  Rose,  is  pressed  into  service.  We  have  Do-well, 
Covetousness,  Avarice,  Simony,  Conscience,  and  a  whole 
world  of  talking  abstractions.  But,  in  spite  of  these 

1  1404-1409.  The  commons  declared  that  with  these  revenues  the 
king  would  be  able  to  maintain  15  earls,  1500  knights,  6200  squires, 
and  100  hospitals  :  each  earl  receiving  annually  300  marks  ;  each  knight 
100  marks,  and  the  produce  of  four  ploughed  lands  ;  each  squire  40 
marks,  and  the  produce  of  two  ploughed  lands.  a  About  1362. 

VOL.  I.  M 


162  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  t. 

vain  foreign  phantoms,  the  body  of  the  poem  is  national, 
and  true  to  life.  The  old  language  reappears  in  part ;  the 
old  metre  altogether,  no  more  rhymes,  but  barbarous 
alliterations;  no  more  jesting,  but  a  harsh  gravity,  a 
sustained  invective,  a  grand  and  sombre  imagination, 
heavy  Latin  texts,  hammered  down  as  by  a  Protestant 
hand.  Piers  Ploughman  went  to  sleep  on  the  Malvern 
hills,  and  there  had  a  wonderful  dream  : 

"  Thanne  gan  I  rneten — a  merveillous  swevene, 
That  I  was  in  a  wildernesse — wiste  I  nevere  where ; 
And  as  I  biheeld  into  the  eest, — an  heigh  to  the  sonne, 
I  seigh  a  tour  on  a  toft, — trieliche  y-maked, 
A  deep  dale  bynethe — a  dongeon  thereinne 
With  depe  diches  and  derke — and  dredfulle  of  sighte. 
A  fair  feeld  ful  of  folk — fond  I  ther  bitwene, 
Of  alle  manere  of  men, — the  meene  and  the  riche, 
Werchynge  and  wandrynge — as  the  world  asketh. 
Some  putten  hem  to  the  plough, — pleiden  ful  selde, 
In  settynge  and  sowynge — swonken  ful  harde, 
And  wonnen  that  wastours — with  glotonye  dystruyeth."  * 

A  gloomy  picture  of  the  world,  like  the  frightful  dreams 
which  occur  so  often  in  Albert  Durer  and  Luther.  The 
first  reformers  were  persuaded  that  the  earth  was  given 
over  to  evil ;  that  the  devil  had  on  it  his  empire  and 
his  officers ;  that  Antichrist,  seated  on  the  throne  of 
Home,  displayed  ecclesiastical  pomps  to  seduce  souls 
and  cast  them  into  the  fire  of  hell.  So  here  Antichrist, 
with  raised  banner,  enters  a  convent ;  bells  are  rung ; 
monks  in  solemn  procession  go  to  meet  him,  and  receive 
with  congratulations  their  lord  and  father.2  With  seven 

1  Piers  Ploughman's  Vision  and  Creed,  ed.  T.  Wright,  1856,  i.  p. 
2,  I.  21-44. 

*  The  Archdeacoa  of  Richmond,  on  his  tour  in  1216,  came  to  the 
priory  of  Bridlington  with  ninety-seven  horses,  twenty-one  dogs,  and 
three  falcons. 


.  n.  THE  NORMANS.  163 

great  giants,  the  seven  deadly  sins,  he  besieges  Con- 
science; and  the  assault  is  led  by  Idleness,  who  brings 
with  her  an  army  of  more  than  a  thousand  prelates : 
for  vices  reign,  more  hateful  from  being  in  holy  places, 
and  employed  in  the  church  of  God  in  the  devil's  service: 

"  Ac  now  is  Religion  a  rydere — a  romere  aboute, 
A  ledere  of  love-dayes — and  a  loud-buggere, 
A  prikere  on  a  palfrey — fro  manere  to  manere.  .  .  . 
And  but  if  his  knave  knele — that  shal  his  coppe  brynge, 
He  loureth  on  hym,  and  asketh  hym — who  taughte   hym 
curteisie."1 

But  this  sacrilegious  show  has  its  day,  and  God  puts 
His  hand  on  men  in  order  to  warn  them.  By  order  of 
Conscience,  Nature  sends  forth  a  host  of  plagues  and 
diseases  from  the  planets  : 

"  Kynde  Conscience  tho  herde, — and  cam  out  of  the  planetes, 
And  seute  forth  his  forreyours — feveres  and  fluxes, 
Coughes  and  cardiacles, — crampes  and  tooth-aches, 
Reumes  and  radegundes, — and  roynous  scabbes, 
Biles  and  bocches, — and  brennynge  agues, 
Frenesies  and  foule  yveles, — forageres  of  kynde.  .  .  . 
There  was  '  Harrow  !  and  Help  ! — Here  cometh  Kynde  1 
With  Deeth  that  is  dredful — to  undo  us  alle  !' 
The  lord  that  lyved  after  lust — tho  aloud  cryde.  .  .  . 
Deeth  cam  dryvynge  after, — and  al  to  duste  passhed 
Kynges  and  knyghtes, — kaysers  and  popes,  .  .  . 
Mauye  a  lovely  lady — and  lemmans  of  knyghtes, 
Swowned  and  swelted  for  sorwe  of  hise  dyntes."2 

Here  is  a  crowd  of  miseries,  like  those  which  Milton 
has  described  in  his  vision  of  human  life ;  tragic  pictures 

1  Piers  Ploughman's  Vision,  i.  p.  191,  I.  6217-6228. 
a  Ibid.  ii.  Last  book,  p.  430,  I.  14,084-14,135. 


164  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

and  emotions,  such  as  the  reformers  delight  to  dwell  upon. 
There  is  a  like  speech  delivered  by  John  Knox,  before 
the  fair  ladies  of  Mary  Stuart,  which  tears  the  veil  from 
the  human  corpse  just  as  coarsely,  in  order  to  exhibit  its 
shame.  The  conception  of  the  world,  proper  to  the  people 
of  the  north,  all  sad  and  moral,  shows  itself  already. 
They  are  never  comfortable  in  their  country;  they  have 
to  strive  continually  against  cold  or  rain.  They  cannot 
live  there  carelessly,  lying  under  a  lovely  sky,  in  a  sultry 
and  clear  atmosphere,  their  eyes  filled  with  the  noble 
beauty  and  happy  serenity  of  the  land.  They  must  work 
to  live ;  be  attentive,  exact,  keep  their  houses  wind  and 
water  tight,  trudge  doggedly  through  the  mud  behind  their 
plough,  light  their  lamps  in  their  shops  during  the  day. 
Their  climate  imposes  endless  inconvenience,  and  exacts 
endless  endurance.  Hence  arise  melancholy  and  the 
idea  of  duty.  Man  naturally  thinks  of  life  as  of  a  battle, 
oftener  of  black  death  which  closes  this  deadly  show, 
and  leads  so  many  plumed  and  disorderly  processions  to 
the  silence  and  the  eternity  of  the  grave.  All  this 
visible  world  is  vain ;  there  is  nothing  true  but  human 
virtue, — the  courageous  energy  with  which  man  attains 
to  self-command,  the  generous  energy  with  which  he 
employs  himself  in  the  service  of  others.  On  this  view, 
then,  his  eyes  are  fixed ;  they  pierce  through  worldly 
gauds,  neglect  sensual  joys,  to  attain  this.  By  such  inner 
thoughts  and  feelings  the  ideal  model  is  displaced ;  a 
new  source  of  action  springs  up — the  idea  of  righteous- 
ness. What  sets  them  against  ecclesiastical  pomp  and 
insolence,  is  neither  the  envy  of  the  poor  and  low,  nor 
the  anger  of  the  oppressed,  nor  a  revolutionary  desire  to 
experimentalise  abstract  truth,  but  conscience.  They 
tremble  lest  they  should  not  work  out  their  salvation  if 


CHAP.  iL  THE  NORMANS.  165 

they  continue  in  a  corrupt  church ;  they  fear  the  menaces 
of  God,  and  dare  not  embark  on  the  great  journey  with 
unsafe  guides.  "  What  is  righteousness  ?"  asked  Luther 
anxiously,  "  and  how  shall  I  obtain  it  ? "  With  like 
anxiety  Piers  Ploughman  goes  to  seek  Do- well,  and  asks 
each  one  to  show  him  where  he  shall  find  him.  "  With 
us,"  say  the  friars.  "  Contra  quath  ich,  Septies  in  die 
cadit  Justus,  and  ho  so  syngeth  certys  doth  nat  wel ; " 
so  he  betakes  himself  to  "  study  and  writing,"  like 
Luther ;  the  clerks  at  table  speak  much  of  God  and  of 
the  Trinity,  "and  taken  Bernardo  to  witnesse,  and 
putteth  forth  presompcions  .  .  .  ac  the  earful  mai  crie 
and  quaken  atte  gate,  bothe  a  fyngred  and  a  furst,  and 
for  defaute  spille  ys  non  so  hende  to  have  hym  yn. 
Clerkus  and  knyghtes  carpen  of  God  ofte,  and  haveth 
hym  muche  in  hure  mouthe,  ac  mene  men  in  herte ;" 
and  heart,  inner  faith,  living  virtue,  are  what  constitute 
true  religion.  This  is  what  these  dull  Saxons  had 
begun  to  discover.  The  Teutonic  conscience,  and  English 
good  sense  too,  had  been  aroused,  as  well  as  individual 
energy,  the  resolution  to  judge  and  to  decide  alone,  by 
and  for  one's  self.  "  Christ  is  our  hede  that  sitteth  on 
hie,  Heddis  ne  ought  we  have  no  mo,"  says  a  poem, 
attributed  to  Chaucer,  and  which,  with  others,  claims 
independence  for  Christian  consciences.1 

"  We  ben  his  membres  bothe  also, 
Father  he  taught  us  call  him  all, 
Maisters  to  call  forbad  he  tho  ; 
Al  maisters  ben  wickid  and  fals." 

No  other  mediator  between  man  and  God.  In  vain  the 
doctors  state  that  they  have  authority  for  their  words ; 

1  Piers  Plowman's  Crede;  the  Plowman's  Tale,  first  printed  in  1560. 
There  were  three  editions  iu  one  year,  it  was  so  manifestly  Protestant. 


166  THE  SOURCE.  BOOKI 

there  is  a  word  of  greater  authority,  to  wit,  God's.  We 
hear  it  in  the  fourteenth  century,  this  grand  "  word  of 
God."  It  quitted  the  learned  schools,  the  dead  lan- 
guages, the  dusty  shelves  on  which  the  clergy  suffered 
it  to  sleep,  covered  with  a  confusion  of  commentators 
and  Fathers.1  Wiclif  appeared  and  translated  it  like 
Luther,  and  in  a  spirit  similar  to  Luther's.  "  Cristen 
men  and  wymmen,  olde  and  yonge,  shulden  studie 
fast  in  the  Newe  Testament,  for  it  is  of  ful  autorite,  and 
opyn  to  undirstonding  of  simple  men,  as  to  the  poyntis 
that  be  moost  nedeful  to  salvacioun."  2  Religion  must 
be  secular,  in  order  to  escape  from  the  hands  of  the 
clergy,  who  monopolise  it;  each  must  hear  and  read 
for  himself  the  word  of  God :  he  will  then  be  sure  that 
it  has  not  been  corrupted ;  he  will  feel  it  better,  and 
more,  he  will  understand  it  better ;  for 

"  ech  place  of  holy  writ,  both  opyn  and  derk,  techith  mekenea 
and  charite;  and  therfore  he  that  kepith  mekenes  and  charite 
hath  the  trewe  undirstondyng  and  perfectiouu  of  al  holi  writ.  . .  . 
Therfore  no  simple  man  of  wit  be  aferd  unmesurabli  to  studie  in 
the  text  of  holy  writ .  .  .  and  no  clerk  be  proude  of  the  verrey 
undirstondyng  of  holy  writ,  for  whi  undirstondiug  of  hooly  writ 
with  outen  charite  that  kepith  Goddis  heestis,  inakitli  a  man 
depper  dampned  .  .  .  and  pride  and  covetise  of  clerkis  is  cause 
of  her  blindees  and  eresie,  and  priveth  them  fro  verrey  uudir- 
stondyng  of  holy  writ."  3 

1  Knighton,  about  1400,  wrote  thus  of  Wiclif:  "Transtulit  de 
Latino  in  anglicam  linguam,  non  angelicam.  Umle  per  ipsum  fit  vul- 
gare,  et  magis  apertum  laicis  et  mulieribus  legere  scientibus  quam  solet 
csse  clericis  admodum  litteratis,  et  bene  intelligentibus.  Et  sic  evan- 
gclica  margerita  spargitur  et  a  porcis  conculcatur  .  .  .  (ita)  ut  laicis 
commune  fetermim  quod  ante  fuerat  clericis  et  ccclesiae  doctoribus 
talentum  supernum." 

8  Wiclif  s  Bible,  ed.  Forshall  and  Madden,  1850,  preface  to  Oxford 
p.  2.  s 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  NORMANS.  167 

These  are  the  memorable  words  that  began  to  circu- 
late in  the  markets  and  in  the  schools.  They  read  the 
translated  Bible,  and  commented  on  it;  they  judged 
the  existing  Church  after  it.  What  judgments  these 
serious  and  untainted  minds  passed  upon  it,  with  what 
readiness  they  pushed  on  to  the  true  religion  of  their 
race,  we  may  see  from  their  petition  to  Parliament.1 
One  hundred  and  thirty  years  before  Luther,  they  said 
that  the  pope  was  not  established  by  Christ,  that  pilgri- 
mages and  image-worship  were  akin  to  idolatry,  that 
external  rites  are  of  no  importance,  that  priests  ought 
not  to  possess  temporal  wealth,  that  the  doctrine  of 
transubstantiation  made  a  people  idolatrous,  that  priests 
have  not  the  power  of  absolving  from  sin.  In  proof  of 
all  this  they  brought  forward  texts  of  Scripture.  Fancy 
these  brave  spirits,  simple  and  strong  souls,  who  began 
to  read  at  night  in  their  shops,  by  candle-light ;  for 
they  were  shopkeepers — tailors,  skinners,  and  bakers 
— who,  with  some  men  of  letters,  began  to  read,  and 
then  to  believe,  and  finally  got  themselves  burned.2 
What  a  sight  for  the  fifteenth  century,  and  what  a 
promise !  It  seems  as  though,  with  liberty  of  action, 
liberty  of  mind  begins  to  appear;  that  these  common 
folk  will  think  and  speak ;  that  under  the  conventional 
literature,  imitated  from  France,  a  new  literature  is 
dawning ;  and  that  England,  genuine  England,  half-mute 
since  the  Conquest,  will  at  last  find  a  voice. 

She  had  not  yet  found  it.  King  and  peers  ally 
themselves  to  the  Church,  pass  terrible  statutes,  destroy 
books,  burn  heretics  alive,  often  with  refinement  of 
torture, — one  in  a  barrel,  another  hung  by  an  iron  chain 

1  In  1395. 
1  1401,  William  Sawtre,  the  first  Lollard  burned  alive, 


168  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

round  his  waist.  The  temporal  wealth  of  the  clergy 
had  been  attacked,  and  therewith  the  whole  English 
constitution ;  and  the  great  establishment  above  crushed 
out  with  its  whole  weight  the  revolutionists  from  below. 
Darkly,  in  silence,  while  the  nobles  were  destroying  each 
other  in  the  Wars  of  the  Eoses,  the  commons  went  on 
working  and  living,  separating  themselves  from  the 
established  Church,  maintaining  their  liberties,  amassing 
wealth,  but  not  going  further.1  Like  a  vast  rock 
which  underlies  the  soil,  yet  crops  up  here  and  there  at 
distant  intervals,  they  barely  show  themselves.  No 
great  poetical  or  religious  work  displays  them  to  the 
light.  They  sang;  but  their  ballads,  first  ignored, 
then  transformed,  reach  us  only  in  a  late  edition. 
They  prayed ;  but  beyond  one  or  two  indifferent 
poems,  their  incomplete  and  repressed  doctrine  bore  no 
fruit.  We  may  well  see  from  the  verse,  tone,  and  drift 
of  their  ballads,  that  they  are  capable  of  the  finest  poetic 
originality,2  but  their  poetry  is  in  the  hands  of  yeomen 
and  harpers.  We  perceive,  by  the  precocity  and  energy 
of  their  religious  protests,  that  they  are  capable  of  the 
most  severe  and  impassioned  creeds;  but  their  faith 
remains  hidden  in  the  shop-parlours  of  a  few  obscure 
sectaries.  Neither  their  faith  nor  their  poetry  has  been 

1  Commines,  v.  ch.  19  and  20  :  "In  my  opinion,  of  all  kingdoms 
of  the  world  of  which  I  have  any  knowledge,  where  the  public  weal  is 
best  observed,  and  least  violence  is  exercised  on  the  people,  and  where 
no  buildings  are  overthrown  or  demolished  in  war,  England  is  the  best  ; 
and  the  ruin  and  misfortune  falls  on  them  who  wage  the  war.  .  .  .  The 
kingdom  of  England  has  this  advantage  beyond  other  nations,  that  the 
people  and  the  country  are  not  destroyed  or  burnt,  nor  the  buildings 
demolished  ;  and  ill-fortune  falls  on  men  of  war,  and  especially  on  the 
nobles." 

2  See  the  ballads  of  Chevy  Chase,    The  Nut-Brvwn  Maid,  etc. 
Many  of  them  are  admirable  little  dramas. 


CHAP.  n.  THE  NORMANS.  169 

able  to  attain  its  end  or  issue.  The  Eenaissance  and 
the  Reformation,  those  two  national  outbreaks,  are  still 
far  off;  and  the  literature  of  the  period  retains  to  the 
end,  like  the  highest  ranks  of  English  society,  almost 
the  perfect  stamp  of  its  French  origin  and  its  foreign 
models. 


170  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 


CHAPTEE  IIL 

3KjE  $eirr  tongue. 

I. 

AMID  so  many  barren  endeavours,  throughout  the  long 
impotence  of  Norman  literature,  which  was  content  to 
copy,  and  of  Saxon  literature,  which  Lore  no  fruit,  a 
definite  language  was  nevertheless  formed,  and  there 
was  room  for  a  great  writer.  Geoffrey  Chaucer  appeared, 
a  man  of  mark,  inventive  though  a  disciple,  original 
though  a  translator,  who  by  his  genius,  education,  and 
life,  was  enabled  to  know  and  to  depict  a  whole  world, 
but  above  all  to  satisfy  the  chivalric  world  and  the 
splendid  courts  which  shone  upon  the  heights.1  He 
belonged  to  it,  though  learned  and  versed  in  all  branches 
of  scholastic  knowledge;  and  he  took  such  a  share  in  it, 
that  his  life  from  beginning  to  end  was  that  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  and  a  man  of  action.  "VVe  find  him  by 
turns  in  King  Edward's  army,  in  the  king's  train,  hus- 
band of  a  maid  of  honour  to  the  queen,  a  pensioner,  a 
placeholder,  a  member  of  Parliament,  a  knight,  founder 
of  a  family  which  was  hereafter  to  become  allied  to 
royalty.  Moreover,  he  was  in  the  king's  council,  brother- 
in-law  of  John  of  Gaunt,  employed  more  than  once  in 
open  embassies  or  secret  missions  at  Florence,  Genoa, 
Milan,  Flanders,  commissioner  in  France  for  the  marriage 
'  Born  between  1328  and  1345,  died  in  1400. 


CHAP.  m.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  171 

of  the  Prince  of  "Wales,  high  up  and  low  down  on  the 
political  ladder,  disgraced,  restored  to  place.  This  ex- 
perience of  business,  travel,  war,  and  the  court,  was  not 
like  a  book-education.  He  was  at  the  court  of  Edward 
III.,  the  most  splendid  in  Europe,  amidst  tourneys, 
grand  receptions,  magnificent  displays ;  he  took  part  in 
the  pomps  of  France  and  Milan ;  conversed  with 
Petrarch,  perhaps  with  Boccaccio  and  Froissart;  was 
actor  in,  and  spectator  of,  the  finest  and  most  tragical  of 
dramas.  In  these  few  words,  what  ceremonies  and 
cavalcades  are  implied  !  what  processions  in  arniour, 
what  caparisoned  horses,  bedizened  ladies  !  what  display 
of  gallant  and  lordly  manners !  what  a  varied  and  bril- 
liant world,  well  suited  to  occupy  the  mind  and  eyes  of 
a  poet !  Like  Froissart,  and  better  than  he,  Chaucer 
could  depict  the  castles  of  the  nobles,  their  conversations, 
their  talk  of  love,  and  anything  else  that  concerned 
them,  and  please  them  by  his  portraiture. 

II. 

Two  notions  raised  the  middle  age  above  the  chaos  of 
barbarism :  one  religious,  which  had  fashioned  the 
gigantic  cathedrals,  and  swept  the  masses  from  their 
native  soil  to  hurl  them  upon  the  Holy  Land ;  the  other 
secular,  which  had  built  feudal  fortresses,  and  set  the 
man  of  courage  erect  and  armed,  within  his  own  domain  : 
the  one  had  produced  the  adventurous  hero,  the  other 
the  mystical  monk ;  the  one,  to  wit,  the  belief  in  God, 
the  other  the  belief  in  self.  Both,  running  to  excess, 
had  degenerated  by  the  violence  of  their  own  strength : 
the  one  had  exalted  independence  into  rebellion,  the 
other  had  turned  piety  into  enthusiasm :  the  first  made 
man  unfit  for  civil  life,  the  second  drew  him  back  from 


172  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

natural  life  :  the  one,  sanctioning  disorder,  dissolved 
society ;  the  other,  enthroning  infatuation,  perverted 
intelligence.  Chivalry  had  need  to  be  repressed  because 
it  issued  in  brigandage ;  devotion  restrained  because  it 
induced  slavery.  Turbulent  feudalism  grew  feeble^  like 
oppressive  theocracy ;  and  the  two  great  master  passions, 
deprived  of  their  sap  and  lopped  of  their  stem,  gave 
place  by  their  weakness  to  the  monotony  of  habit  and 
the  taste  for  worldliness,  which  shot  forth  in  their  stead 
and  flourished  under  their  name. 

Gradually,  the  serious  element  declined,  in  books  as 
in  manners,  in  works  of  art  as  in  books.  Architecture, 
instead  of  being  the  handmaid  of  faith,  became  the 
slave  of  phantasy.  It  was  exaggerated,  became  too 
ornamental,  sacrificing  general  effect  to  detail,  shot  up 
its  steeples  to  unreasonable  heights,  decorated  its 
churches  with  canopies,  pinnacles,  trefoiled  gables,  open- 
work galleries.  "  Its  whole  aim  was  continually  to 
climb  higher,  to  clothe  the  sacred  edifice  with  a  gaudy 
bedizenment,  as  if  it  were  a  bride  on  her  wedding  morn- 
ing." l  Before  this  marvellous  lacework,  what  emotion 
could  one  feel  but  a  pleased  astonishment  ?  What 
becomes  of  Christian  sentiment  before  such  scenic 
ornamentations  ?  In  like  manner  literature  sets  itself 
to.  play.  In  the  eighteenth  century,  the  second  age 
of  absolute  monarchy,  we  saw  on  one  side  finials 
and  floriated  cupolas,  on  the  other  pretty  vers  de  soctiti, 
courtly  and  sprightly  tales,  taking  the  place  of  severe 
beauty-lines  and  noble  writings.  Even  so  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  the  second  age  of  feudalism,  they  had 
on  one  side  the  stone  fretwork  and  slender  efflorescence 
of  aerial  forms,  and  on  the  other  finical  verses  and 

1  Kenan,  De  I' Art  au  Moyen  Age. 


CHAP.  m.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  173 

diverting  stories,  taking  the  place  of  the  old  grand  archi- 
tecture and  the  old  simple  literature.  It  is  no  longer 
the  overflowing  of  a  true  sentiment  which  produces 
them,  but  the  craving  for  excitement.  Consider  Chau- 
cer, his  subjects,  and  how  he  selects  them.  He  goes 
far  and  wide  to  discover  them,  to  Italy,  France,  to  the 
popular  legends,  the  ancient  classics.  His  readers  need 
diversity,  and  his  business  is  to  "provide  fine  tales:" 
it  was  in  those  days  the  poet's  business.1  The  lords  at 
table  have  finished  dinner,  the  minstrels  come  and  sing, 
the  brightness  of  the  torches  falls  on  the  velvet  and 
ermine,  on  the  fantastic  figures,  the  motley,  the  elab- 
orate embroidery  of  their  long  garments ;  then  the  poet 
arrives,  presents  his  manuscript,  "  richly  illuminated, 
bound  in  crimson  violet,  embellished  with  silver  clasps 
and  bosses,  roses  of  gold:"  they  ask  him  what  his 
subject  is,  and  he  answers  "  Love." 

III. 

In  fact,  it  is 'the  most  agreeable  subject,  fittest  to 
make  the  evening  hours  pass  sweetly,  amid  the  goblets 
filled  with  spiced  wine  and  the  burning  perfumes. 
Chaucer  translated  first  that  great  storehouse  of  gallantry, 
the  Roman  de  la  Rose.  There  is  no  pleasanter  enter- 
tainment. It  is  about  a  rose  which  the  lover  wished 
to  pluck :  the  pictures  of  the  May  months,  the  groves, 
the  flowery  earth,  the  green  hedgerows,  abound  and 
display  their  bloom.  Then  come  portraits  of  the 
smiling  ladies,  Richesse,  Fraunchise,  Gaiety,  and  by 
way  of  contrast,  the  sad  characters,  Daunger  and 

1  See  Froissart,  his  life  with  the  Count  of  Foix  and  with  King 
Richard  II. 


174  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  r. 

Travail,  all  fully  and  minutely  described,  with  detail  of 
features,  clothing,  attitude ;  they  walk  about,  as  on  a 
piece  of  tapestry,  amid  landscapes,  dances,  castles,  among 
allegorical  groups,  in  lively  sparkling  colours,  displayed, 
contrasted,  ever  renewed  and  varied  so  as  to  entertain 
the  sight.  For  an  evil  lias  arisen,  unknown  to  serious 
ages  —  ennui:  novelty  and  brilliancy  followed  by 
novelty  and  brilliancy  are  necessary  to  withstand  it; 
and  Chaucer,  like  Boccaccio  and  Froissart,  enters  into 
the  struggle  with  all  his  heart.  He  borrows  from 
Boccaccio  his  history  of  Palamon  and  Arcite,  from 
Lollius  his  history  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  and  re- 
arranges them.  How  the  two  young  Theban  knights, 
Arcite  and  Palamon,  both  fall  in  love  with  the  beautiful 
Emily,  and  how  Arcite,  victorious  in  tourney,  falls  and 
dies,  bequeathing  Emily  to  his  rival;  how  the  fine 
Trojan  knight  Troilus  wins  the  favour  of  Cressida, 
and  how  Cressida  abandons  him  for  Diomedes — these 
are  still  tales  in  verse,  tales  of  love.  A  little  tedious 
they  may  be ;  all  the  writings  of  this,  age ;  French,  or 
imitated  from  French,  are  born  of  too  prodigal  minds ; 
but  how  they  glide  along !  A  winding  stream,  which 
flows  smoothly  on  level  sand,  and  sparkles  now  and 
again  in  the  sun,  is  the  only  image  we  can  compare  it 
to.  The  characters  speak  too  much,  but  then  they 
speak  so  well !  Even  when  they  dispute,  we  like  to 
listen,  their  anger  and  offences  are  so  wholly  based  on 
a  happy  overflow  of  unbroken  converse.  Remember 
Froissart,  how  slaughters,  assassinations,  plagues,  the 
butcheries  of  the  Jacquerie,  the  whole  chaos  of  human 
misery,  disappears  in  his  fine  ceaseless  humour,  so  that 
the  furious  and  grinning  figures  seem  but  ornaments 
and  choice  embroideries  to  relieve  the  skein  of  shaded 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  176 

and  coloured  silk  which  forms  the  groundwork  of  his 
narrative  !  but,  in  particular,  a  multitude  of  descriptions 
spread  their  gilding  over  all.  Chaucer  leads  you  among 
arms,  palaces,  temples,  and  halts  before  each  beautiful 
thing.  Here : 

"  The  statue  of  Venus  glorious  for  to  see 
Was  naked  fleting  in  the  large  see, 
And  fro  the  navel  douu  all  covered  was 
With  wawes  grene,  and  bright  as  any  glas. 
A  citole  in  hire  right  hand  hadde  she, 
And  on  hire  hed,  ful  semely  for  to  see, 
A  rose  gerlond  fressh,  and  wel  smelling, 
Above  hire  hed  hire  doves  fleckering."1 

Further  on,  the  temple  of  Mars : 

"  First  on  the  wall  was  pointed  a  forest, 
In  which  ther  wonneth  neyther  man  ne  best, 
With  knotty  knarry  barrein  trees  old 
Of  stubbes  sharpe  and  hidous  to  behold ; 
In  which  ther  ran  a  romble  and  a  swough, 
As  though  a  storme  shuld  bresten  every  bough  : 
And  dounward  from  an  hill  under  a  bent. 
Ther  stood  the  temple  of  Mars  armipoteut, 
Wrought  all  of  burned  stele,  of  which  th'  entree 
Was  louge  and  streite,  and  gastly  for  to  see.        t 
And  therout  came  a  rage  and  swiche  a  vise, 
That  it  made  all  the  gates  for  to  rise. 
The  northern  light  in  at  the  dore  shone, 
For  window  on  the  wall  ne  was  ther  none, 
Thurgh  which  men  mighten  any  light  discerne 
The  dore  was  all  of  athamant  eterne, 
Yclenched  overthwart  and  endelong 
With  yreu  tough,  and  for  to  make  it  strong, 

1  Knight's  Tale,  ii.  p.  59,  I.  1957-1964. 


176  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

Every  piler  the  temple  to  sustene 

Was  tonne-gret,  of  yren  bright  and  shene."1 

Everywhere  on  the  wall  were  representations  of  slaugh- 
ter; and  in  the  sanctuary 

"  The  statue  of  Mars  upon  a  carte  stood 
Armed,  and  loked  grim  as  he  were  wood,  .  .  . 
A  wolf  ther  stood  beforne  him  at  his  fete 
With  eyen  red,  and  of  a  man  he  ete."2 

Are  not  these  contrasts  well  designed  to  rouse  the 
imagination  ?  You  will  meet  in  Chaucer  a  succession 
"of  similar  pictures.  Observe  the  train  of  combatants 
who  came  to  joust  in  the  tilting  field  for  Arcite  and 
Palamon : 

"  With  him  ther  wenten  knightes  many  on. 
Som  wol  ben  armed  in  an  habergeon 
And  in  a  brestplate,  and  in  a  gipon ; 
And  som  wol  have  a  pair  of  plates  large ; 
And  som  wol  have  a  Pruce  sheld,  or  a  targe, 
Som  wol  ben  armed  on  his  legges  wele, 
And  have  an  axe,  and  som  a  mace  of  stele.  .  .  . 
Ther  maist  thou  se  coming  with  Palamon 
Licurge  himself,  the  grete  king  of  Trace  : 
Blake  was  his  berd,  and  manly  was  his  face. 
The  cercles  of  his  eyen  in  his  hed 
They  gloweden  betwixen  yelwe  and  red, 
And  like  a  griffon  loked  he  about, 
With  kemped  heres  on  his  browes  stout ; 
His  limmes  gret,  his  braunes  hard  and  stronge, 
His  shouldres  brode,  his  arraes  round  and  longe. 
And  as  the  guise  was  in  his  contree, 
Ful  highe  upon  a  char  of  gold  stood  he, 
With  foure  white  bolles  in  the  trais. 

1  Knight's  Tale,  u.  p.  59,  I.  1977-1998. 
1  Ibid.  p.  61, 1.  2043-2050. 


CHAP.  m.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  177 

Instede  of  cote-armure  on  his  harnais, 
With  nayles  yelwe,  and  bright  as  any  gold, 
He  hadde  a  beres  skin,  cole-blake  for  old. 
His  longe  here  was  kempt  behind  his  bak, 
As  any  ravenes  fether  it  shone  for  blake. 
A  wreth  of  gold  arm-gret,  of  huge  weight, 
Upon  his  hed  sate  ful  of  stones  bright, 
Of  fine  rubins  and  of  diamaiits. 
About  his  char  ther  wenten  white  alauns, 
Twenty  and  mo,  as  gret  as  any  stere, 
To  hunten  at  the  leon  or  the  dere, 
And  folwed  him,  with  mosel  fast  ybound, 
Colered  with  gold,  and  torettes  filed  round. 
An  hundred  lordes  had  he  in  his  route, 
Armed  ful  wel,  with  hertes  sterne  and  stoute. 
With  Arcita,  in  stories  as  men  find, 
The  gret  Emetrius  the  king  of  Inde, 
Upon  a  stede  bay,  trapped  in  stele, 
Covered  with  cloth  of  gold  diapred  wele, 
Came  riding  like  the  god  of  armes  Mars. 
His  cote-armure  was  of  a  cloth  of  Tars, 
Couched  with  perles,  white,  and  round  and  grete. 
His  sadel  was  of  brent  gold  new  ybete  ; 
A  mantelet  upon  his  shouldres  hanging 
Bret-ful  of  rubies  red,  as  fire  sparkling. 
His  crispe  here  like  ringes  was  yronne, 
And  that  was  yelwe,  and  glitered  as  the  sonne. 
His  nose  was  high,  his  eyen  bright  citrin, 
His  lippes  round,  his  colour  was  sanguin  .  .  . 
And  as  a  leon  he  his  loking  caste. 
Of  five  and  twenty  yere  his  age  I  caste. 
His  berd  was  well  begonnen  for  to  spring ; 
His  vois  was  as  a  trompe  thondering. 
Upon  his  hed  he  wered  of  laurer  grene 
A  gerlond  fresshe  and  lusty  for  to  sena 
VOL.  I.  N 


178  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

Upon  his  bond  he  bare  for  his  deduit 
An  egle  tame,  as  any  lily  whit. 
An  hundred  lordes  had  he  with  him  there, 
All  armed  save  hir  hedes  in  all  hir  gere, 
Ful  richely  in  alle  manere  thinges  .  .  . 
About  this  king  ther  ran  on  every  part 
Ful  many  a  tame  Icon  and  leopart."1 

A  herald  would  not  describe  them  better  nor  more 
fully.  The  lords  and  ladies  of  the  time  would  recognise 
here  their  tourneys  and  masquerades. 

There  is  something  more  pleasant  than  a  fine  narra- 
tive, and  that  is  a  collection  of  fine  narratives,  especially 
when  the  narratives  are  all  of  different  colourings. 
Froissart  gives  us  such  under  the  name  of  Chronicles ; 
Boccaccio  still  better ;  after  him  the  lords  of  the  Cent 
Nouvelles  Nouvelles ;  and,  later  still,  Marguerite  of 
Navarre.  What  more  natural  among  people  who  meet, 
talk,  and  wish  to  amuse  themselves.  The  manners  of 
the  time  suggest  them;  for  the  habits  and  tastes  of 
society  had  begun,  and  fiction  thus  conceived  only 
brings  into  books  the  conversations  which  are  heard  in 
the  hall  and  by  the  wayside.  Chaucer  describes  a 
troop  of  pilgrims,  people  of  every  rank,  who  are  going 
to  Canterbury ;  a  knight,  a  sergeant  of  law,  an  Oxford 
clerk,  a  doctor,  a  miller,  a  prioress,  a  monk,  who  agree 
to  tell  a  story  all  round : 

"  For  trewely  comfort  ne  mirthe  is  non, 
To  riden  by  the  way  domb  as  the  ston." 

They  tell  their  stories  accordingly ;  and  on  this  slender 
and  flexible  thread  all  the  jewels  of  feudal  imagination, 
real  or  false,  contribute  one  after  another  their  motley 
shapes  to  form  a  necklace;  side  by  side  with  noble 

1  KnigMt  Talf,  ii.  p.  63, 1.  2120-2188. 


CHAP.  m.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  179 

and  chivalrous  stories :  we  have  the  miracle  of  an 
infant  whose  throat  was  cut  by  Jews,  the  trials 
of  patient  Griselda,  Canace  and  marvellous  fictions 
of  Oriental  fancy,  obscene  stories  of  marriage  and 
monks,  allegorical  or  moral  tales,  the  fable  of  the 
cock  and  hen,  a  list  of  great  unfortunate  persons : 
Lucifer,  Adam,  Samson,  Nebuchadnezzar,  Zenobia, 
Crcesus,  Ugolino,  Peter  of  Spain.  I  leave  out  some, 
for  I  must  be  brief.  Chaucer  is  like  a  jeweller  with 
his  hands  full :  pearls  and  glass  beads,  sparkling 
diamonds  and  common  agates,  black  jet  and  ruby  roses, 
all  that  history  and  imagination  had  been  able  to  gather 
and  fashion  during  three  centuries  in  the  East,  in 
France,  in  Wales,  in  Provence,  in  Italy,  all  that  had 
rolled  his  way,  clashed  together,  broken  or  polished  by 
the  stream  of  centuries,  and  by  the  great  jumble  of 
human  memory,  he  holds  in  his  hand,  arranges  it, 
composes  therefrom  a  long  sparkling  ornament,  with 
twenty  pendants,  a  thousand  facets,  which  by  its  splen- 
dour, variety,  contrasts,  may  attract  and  satisfy  the  eyes 
of  those  most  greedy  for  amusement  and  novelty. 

He  does  more.  The  universal  outburst  of  unchecked 
curiosity  demands  a  more  refined  enjoyment :  reverie 
and  fantasy  alone  can  satisfy  it;  not  profound,  and 
thoughtful  fantasy  as  we  find  it  in  Shakspeare,  nor 
impassioned  and  meditative  reverie  as  we  find  it  in 
Dante,  but  the  reverie  and  fantasy  of  the  eyes,  ears, 
external  senses,  which  in  poetry  as  in  architecture  call 
for  singularity,  wonders,  accepted  challenges,  victories 
gained  over  the  rational  and  probable,  and  which  are 
satisfied  only  by  what  is  crowded  and  dazzling.  When 
we  look  at  a  cathedral  of  that  time,  we  feel  a  sort  of 
fear.  Substance  is  wanting;  the  walls  are  hollowed 


180  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  t 

out  to  make  room  for  windows,  the  elaborate  work  of 
the  porches,  the  wonderful  growth  of  the  slender  columns, 
the  thin  curvature  of  arches — everything  seems  to 
menace  us ;  support  has  been  withdrawn  to  give  way  to 
ornament.  Without  external  prop  or  buttress,  and 
artificial  aid  of  iron  clamp-work,  the  building  would 
have  crumbled  to  pieces  on  the  first  day ;  as  it  is,  it 
undoes  itself ;  we  have  to  maintain  on  the  spot  a  colony 
of  masons  continually  to  ward  off  the  continual  decay. 
But  our  sight  grows  dim  in  following  the  wavings  and 
twistings  of  the  endless  fretwork;  the  dazzling  rose- 
window  of  the  portal  and  the  painted  glass  throw  a 
chequered  light  on  the  carved  stalls  of  the  choir,  the 
gold-work  of  the  altar,  the  long  array  of  damascened 
and  glittering  copes,  the  crowd  of  statues,  tier  above 
tier ;  and  amid  this  violet  light,  this  quivering  purple, 
amid  these  arrows  of  gold  which  pierce  the  gloom,  the 
entire  building  is  like  the  tail  of  a  mystical  peacock. 
So  most  of  the  poems  of  the  time  are  barren  of  founda- 
tion ;  at  most  a  trite  morality  serves  them  for  mainstay : 
in  short,  the  poet  thought  of  nothing  else  than  dis- 
playing before  us  a  glow  of  colours  and  a  jumble  of 
forms.  They  are  dreams  or  visions ;  there  are  five  or 
six  in  Chaucer,  and  you  will  meet  more  on  your 
advance  to  the  Renaissance.  Bat  the  show  is  splendid. 
Chaucer  is  transported  in  a  dream  to  a  temple  of  glass,1 
on  the  walls  of  which  are  figured  in  gold  all  the  legends 
of  Ovid  and  Virgil,  an  infinite  train  of  characters  and 
dresses,  like  that  which,  on  the  painted  glass  in  the 
churches,  occupied  then  the  gaze  of  the  faithful.  Sud- 
denly a  golden  eagle,  which  soars  near  the  sun,  and 
glitters  like  a  carbuncle  descends  with  the  swiftness  of 
1  The  House  of  Fama 


CHAP.  m.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  181 

lightning,  and  carries  him  off  in  his  talons  above  the 
stars,  dropping  him  at  last  before  the  House  of  Fame, 
splendidly  built  of  beryl,  with  shining  windows  and 
lofty  turrets,  and  situated  on  a  high  rock  of  almost 
inaccessible  ice.  All  the  southern  side  was  graven 
with  the  names  of  famous  men,  but  the  sun  was  con- 
tinuously melting  them.  On  the  northern  side,  the 
names,  better  protected,  still  remained.  On  the  turrets 
appeared  the  minstrels  and  "  gestiours,"  with  Orpheus, 
Arion,  and  the  great  harpers,  and  behind  them 
myriads  of  musicians,  with  horns,  flutes,  bag-pipes,  and 
reeds,  on  which  they  played,  and  which  filled  the  air; 
then  all  the  charmers,  magicians,  and  prophets.  He 
enters,  and  in  a  high  hall,  plated  with  gold,  embossed 
with  pearls,  on  a  throne  of  carbuncle,  he  sees  a  woman 
seated,  a  "  noble  quene,"  amidst  an  infinite  number  of 
heralds,  whose  embroidered  cloaks  bore  the  arms  of  the 
most  famous  knights  in  the  world,  and  heard  the  sounds 
of  instruments,  and  the  celestial  melody  of  Calliope 
and  her  sisters.  From  her  throne  to  the  gate  was  a 
row  of  pillars,  on  which  stood  the  great  historians  and 
poets ;  Josephus  on  a  pillar  of  lead  and  iron ;  Statius 
on  a  pillar  of  iron  stained  with  tiger's  blood;  Ovid, 
"Venus'  clerk,"  on  a  pillar  of  copper;  then,  on  one 
higher  than  the  rest,  Homer  and  Livy,  Dares  the  Phry- 
gian, Guido  Colonna,  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  and  the 
other  historians  of  the  war  of  Troy.  Must  I  go  on 
copying  this  phantasmagoria,  in  which  confused  erudition 
mars  picturesque  invention,  and  frequent  banter  shows 
sign  that  the  vision  is  only  a  planned  amusement? 
The  poet  and  his  reader  have  imagined  for  half-an-hour 
decorated  halls  and  bustling  crowds ;  a  slender  thread 
of  common  sense  has  ingeniously  crept  along  the 


182  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

transparent  golden  mist  which  they  amuse  themselves 
with  following.  That  suffices;  they  are  pleased  with 
their  fleeting  fancies,  and  ask  no  more. 

Amid  this  exuberancy  of  mind,  amid  these  refined 
cravings,  and  this  insatiate  exaltation  of  imagination 
and  the  senses,  there  was  one  passion,  that  of  love,  which, 
combining  all,  was  developed  in  excess,  and  displayed  in 
miniature  the  sickly  charm,  the  fundamental  and  fatal 
exaggeration,  which  are  the  characteristics  of  the  age, 
and  which,  later,  the  Spanish  civilisation  exhibits  both 
in  its  flower  and  its  decay.  Long  ago,  the  courts  of 
love  in  Provence  had  established  the  theory.  "Each 
one  who  loves,"  they  said,  "  grows  pale  at  the  sight  of 
her  whom  he  loves ;  each  action  of  the  lover  ends  in 
the  thought  of  her  whom  he  loves.  Love  can  refuse 
nothing  to  love." l  This  search  after  excessive  sensation 
had  ended  in  the  ecstasies  and  transports  of  Guido 
Cavalcanti,  and  of  Dante ;  and  in  Languedoc  a  company 
of  enthusiasts  had  established  themselves,  love-penitents, 
who,  in  order  to  prove  the  violence  of  their  passion, 
dressed  in  summer  in  furs  and  heavy  garments,  and  in 
winter  in  light  gauze,  and  walked  thus  about  the  country, 
so  that  several  of  them  fell  ill  and  died.  Chaucer,  in 
their  wake,  explained  in  his  verses  the  craft  of  love,2 
the  ten  commandments,  the  twenty  statutes  of  love; 
and  praised  his  lady,  his  "  daieseye,"  his  "  Margarite," 
his  "vermeil  rose;"  depicted  love  in  ballads,  visions, 
allegories,  didactic  poems,  in  a  hundred  guises.  This 
is  chivalrous,  lofty  love,  as  it  was  conceived  in  the 
middle  age;  above  all,  tender  love.  Troilus  loves 

1  AndrS  le  Chapelain,  1170. 

*  Also  the  Court  of  Love,  and  perhaps  The  Assemble  of  Ladies  and 
La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  183 

Cressida  like  a  troubadour;  without  Pandarus,  her 
uncle,  he  would  have  languished,  and  ended  by  dying 
in  silence.  He  will  not  reveal  the  name  of  her  he 
loves.  Pandarus  has  to  tear  it  from  him,  perform  all 
the  bold  actions  himself,  plan  every  kind  of  stratagem. 
Troilus,  however  brave  and  strong  in  battle,  can  but 
weep  before  Cressida,  ask  her  pardon,  and  faint. 
Cressida,  on  her  side,  has  every  delicate  feeling.  When 
Pandarus  brings  her  Troilus'  first  letter,  she  begins  by 
refusing  it,  and  is  ashamed  to  open  it :  she  opens  it 
only  because  she  is  told  the  poor  knight  is  about  to  die. 
At  the  first  words  "all  rosy  hewed  tho  woxe  she;" 
and  though  the  letter  is  respectful,  she  will  not  answer 
it.  She  yields  at  last  to  the  importunities  of  her  uncle, 
and  answers  Troilus  that  she  will  feel  for  him  the 
affection  of  a  sister.  As  to  Troilus,  he  trembles  all 
over,  grows  pale  when  he  sees  the  messenger  return, 
doubts  his  happiness,  and  will  not  believe  the  assurance 
which  is  given  him  : 

"  But  right  so  as  these  holtes  and  these  hayis 
That  han  in  winter  dead  ben  and  dry, 
Revesten  hem  in  grene,  whan  that  May  is.  ... 
Right  in  that  selfe  wise,  sooth  for  to  sey, 
Woxe  suddainly  his  herte  full  of  joy."1 

Slowly,  after  many  troubles,  and  thanks  to  the  efforts 
of  Pandarus,  he  obtains  her  confession ;  and  in  this 
confession  what  a  delightful  charm  ! 

"  And  as  the  newe  abashed  nightingale, 
That  stinteth  first,  whan  she  beginneth  sing, 
Whan  that  she  heareth  any  heerdes  tale, 
Or  in  the  hedges  any  wight  stealing, 
And  after  siker  doeth  her  voice  outring : 
1  Troilus  and  Cressida,  vol.  v.  bk.  3,  p.  12. 


184  THE  SOURCE.  BOOR  t 

Right  so  Creseide,  whan  that  her  drede  stent, 
Opened  her  herte  and  told  him  her  en  tent."  l 

He,  as  soon  as  he  perceived  a  hope  from  afar, 

"  In  chaunged  voice,  right  for  his  very  drede, 
Which  voice  eke  quoke,  and  thereto  his  manere, 
Goodly  abasht,  and  now  his  hewes  rede, 
Now  pale,  unto  Cresseide  his  ladie  dere, 
With  looke  doun  cast,  and  humble  iyolden  chere, 
Lo,  the  alderfirst  word  that  him  astart 
Was  twice :  '  Mercy,  mercy,  0  my  sweet  herte  ! '" 2 

This  ardent  love  breaks  out  in  impassioned  accents,  in 
bursts  of  happiness.  Far  from  being  regarded  as  a  fault, 
it  is  the  source  of  all  virtue.  Troilus  becomes  braver, 
more  generous,  more  upright,  through  it ;  his  speech 
runs  now  on  love  and  virtue ;  he  scorns  all  villany ;  he 
honours  those  who  possess  merit,  succours  those  who  are 
in  distress ;  and  Cressida,  delighted,  repeats  all  day, 
with  exceeding  liveliness,  this  song,  which  is  like  the 
warbling  of  a  nightingale  : 

"  Whom  should  I  thanken  but  you,  god  of  love, 
Of  all  this  blisse,  in  which  to  bathe  I  ginne  ? 
And  thanked  be  ye,  lorde  for  that  I  love, 
This  is  the  right  life  that  I  am  inne, 
To  flemen  all  maner  vice  and  sinne : 
This  doeth  me  so  to  vertue  for  to  entende 
That  daie  by  daie  I  in  my  will  amende. 
And  who  that  saieth  that  for  to  love  is  vice,  .  .  . 
He  either  is  envious,  or  right  nice, 
Or  is  unmightie  for  his  shreudnesse 
To  loven.  .  .  . 

But  I  with  all  mine  herte  and  all  my  might, 
As  I  have  saied,  woll  love  unto  my  last, 
1  Troilus  and  Cressida,  vol.  v.  bk.  3,  p.  40.  8  Ibid.  p.  4. 


CHAP.  ra.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  186 

My  owne  dere  herte,  and  all  mine  owne  knight, 
In  whiche  mine  herte  growen  is  so  fast, 
And  his  in  me,  that  it  shall  ever  last." l 

But  misfortune  comes.  Her  father  Calchas  demands 
her  back,  and  the  Trojans  decide  that  they  will  give  her 
up  in  exchange  for  prisoners.  At  this  news  she  swoons, 
and  Troilus  is  about  to  slay  himself.  Their  love  at  this 
time  seems  imperishable ;  it  sports  with  death,  because 
it  constitutes  the  whole  of  life.  Beyond  that  better 
and  delicious  life  which  it  created,  it  seems  there  can 
be  no  other : 

"  But  as  God  would,  of  swough  she  abraide, 
And  gan  to  sighe,  and  Troilus  she  cride, 
And  he  answerde  :  '  Lady  mine,  Creseide, 
Live  ye  yet  V  and  let  his  swerde  doun  glide : 
'Ye  herte  mine,  that  thanked  be  Cupide,' 
(Quod  she),  and  therewithal  she  sore  sight, 
And  he  began  to  glade  her  as  he  might. 

Took  her  in  armes  two  and  kist  her  oft, 
And  her  to  glad,  he  did  al  his  entent, 
For  which  her  gost,  that  flikered  aie  a  loft, 
Into  her  wofull  herte  ayen  it  went : 
But  at  the  last,  as  that  her  eye  glent 
Aside,  anon  she  gan  his  sworde  aspie, 
As  it  lay  bare,  and  gan  for  feare  crie. 

And  asked  him  why  had  he  it  out  draw, 

And  Troilus  anon  the  cause  her  told, 

And  how  himself  therwith  he  wold  have  shun, 

For  which  Creseide  upon  him  gan  behold, 

And  gan  him  in  her  armes  faste  fold, 

And  said  :  '  0  mercy  God,  lo  which  a  dede  ! 

Alas,  how  nigh  we  weren  bothe  dede  !'  "  2 

1  Troilus  and  Cressida,  voL  iv.  bk.  2,  p.  292. 
8  Ibid.  vol.  v.  bk.  4,  p.  97. 


186  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

At  last  they  are  separated,  with  what  vows  and  what 
tears !  and  Troilus,  alone  in  his  chamber,  murmurs  : 

" '  Where  is  mine  owne  lady  lefe  and  dere  ? 
Where  is  her  white  brest,  where  is  it,  where  7 
Where  been  her  armes,  and  her  eyen  clere 
That  yesterday  this  time  with  me  were  ? '  .  .  . 
Nor  there  nas  houre  in  al  the  day  or  night, 
Whan  he  was  ther  as  no  man  might  him  here, 
That  he  ne  sayd  :  '  0  lovesome  lady  bright, 
How  have  ye  faren  sins  that  ye  were  there  ? 
Welcome  y wis  mine  owne  lady  dere  ! '  .  .  . 
Fro  thence-forth  he  rideth  up  and  doune, 
And  every  thing  came  him  to  remembraunce, 
As  he  rode  forth  by  the  places  of  the  toune, 
In  which  he  whilom  had  all  his  pleasaunce  : 

*  Lo,  yonder  saw  I  mine  owne  lady  daunce, 
And  in  that  temple  with  her  eien  clere, 
Me  caught  first  my  right  lady  dere. 
And  yonder  have  I  herde  full  lustely 
My  dere  herte  laugh,  and  yonder  play 
Saw  her  ones  eke  ful  blisfully, 
And  yonder  ones  to  me  gan  she  say, 

'  Now,  good  sweete,  love  me  well  I  pray. 
And  yonde  so  goodly  gan  she  me  behold, 
That  to  the  death  mine  herte  is  to  her  hold. 
And  at  the  corner  in  the  yonder  house 
Herde  I  mine  alderlevest  lady  dere, 
So  womanly,  with  voice  melodiouse, 
Singen  so  wel,  so  goodly,  and  so  clere, 
That  in  my  soule  yet  me  thinketh  I  here 
The  blissful  sowne,  and  in  that  yonder  place, 
My  lady  first  me  toke  unto  her  grace.'  "l 

None  has  since  found  more  true  and  tender  words. 

1  Troilus  and  Oressida,  vol.  v.  bk.  5,  p.  119  et  passim. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  187 

These  are  the  charming  "  poetic  branches "  which 
flourished  amid  gross  ignorance  and  pompous  parades. 
Human  intelligence  in  the  middle  age  had  blossomed  on 
that  side  where  it  perceived  the  light. 

But  mere  narrative  does  not  suffice  to  express  his 
felicity  and  fancy ;  the  poet  must  go  where  "  shoures 
sweet  of  rain  descended  soft." 

"  And  every  plaine  was  clothed  faire 
With  new  greene,  and  maketh  small  floures 
To  springen  here  and  there  in  field  and  in  mede, 
So  very  good  and  wholsome  be  the  shoures, 
That  it  renueth  that  was  old  and  dede, 
In  winter  time  ;  and  out  of  every  sede 
Springeth  the  hearbe,  so  that  every  wight 
Of  this  season  wexeth  glad  and  light.  .  .  . 
In  which  (grove)  were  okes  great,  streight  as  a  line, 
Under  the  which  the  grasse  so  fresh  of  hew 
Was  newly  sprong,  and  an  eight  foot  or  nine 
Every  tree  well  fro  his  fellow  grew." 

He  must  forget  himself  in  the  vague  felicity  of  the 
country,  and,  like  Dante,  lose  himself  in  ideal  light  and 
allegory.  The  dreams  of  love,  to  continue  true,  must 
not  take  too  visible  a  form,  nor  enter  into  a  too  conse- 
cutive history  ;  they  must  float  in  a  misty  distance ; 
the  soul  in  which  they  hover  can  no  longer  think  of  the 
laws  of  existence  ;  it  inhabits  another  world  ;  it  forgets 
itself  in  the  ravishing  emotion  which  troubles  it,  and 
sees  its  well-loved  visions  rise,  mingle,  come  and  go,  as 
in  summer  we  see  the  bees  on  a  hill-slope  flutter  in  a 
haze  of  light,  and  circle  round  and  round  the  flowers. 

One  morning,1  a  lady  sings,  at  the  dawn  of  day,  I 
entered  an  oak-grove 

1  The  Flower  and  the  Leaf,  vi  p.  244,  I.  6-32. 


188  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

"  With  branches  brode,  laden  with  leves  new, 
That  sprongen  out  ayen  the  sunne-shene, 
Some  very  red,  and  some  a  glad  light  grene.  .  .  . 1 

And  I,  that  all  this  pleasaunt  sight  sie, 
Thought  sodainly  I  felt  so  sweet  an  aire 
Of  the  eglentere,  that  certainely 
There  is  no  hert,  I  deme,  in  such  dispaire, 
Ne  with  thoughts  froward  and  contraire, 
So  overlaid,  but  it  should  soone  have  bote, 
If  it  had  ones  felt  this  savour  sote. 

And  as  I  stood,  and  cast  aside  mine  eie, 

I  was  ware  of  the  fairest  medler  tree 

That  ever  yet  in  all  my  life  I  sie, 

As  full  of  blossomes  as  it  might  be  ; 

Therein  a  goldfinch  leaping  pretile 

Fro  bough  to  bough  ;  and,  as  him  list,  he  eet 

Here  and  there  of  buds  and  floures  sweet.  .  .  . 

And  as  I  sat,  the  birds  barkening  thus, 
Methought  that  I  heard  voices  sodainly, 
The  most  sweetest  and  most  delicious 
That  ever  any  wight,  I  trow  truly, 
Heard  in  their  life,  for  the  armony 
And  sweet  accord  was  in  so  good  musike, 
That  the  voice  to  angels  most  was  like."  2 

Then  she  sees  arrive  "  a  world  of  ladies  ...  in  surcotes 
white  of  velvet  ...  set  with  emerauds  ...  as  of 
great  pearles  round  and  orient,  and  diamonds  fine  and 
rubies  red."  And  all  had  on  their  head  "  a  rich  fret  of 
gold  .  .  .  full  of  stately  riche  stones  set,"  with  "  a 
chapelet  of  branches  fresh  and  grene  .  .  .  some  of 

1  The  Flmffer  and  the  Leaf,  p.  245,  I.  33. 
»  Ibid.  vi.  p.  246,  I.  78-133. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  189 

laurer,  some  of  woodbind,  some  of  agnus  castus  ; "  and 
at  the  same  time  came  a  train  of  valiant  knights  in 
Splendid  array,  with  "harneis"  of  red  gold,  shining  in 
the  sun,  and  noble  steeds,  with  trappings  "  of  cloth  of 
gold,  and  furred  with  ermine."  These  knights  and 
ladies  were  the  servants  of  the  Leaf,  and  they  sate  under 
a  great  oak,  at  the  feet  of  their  queen. 

From  the  other  side  came  a  bevy  of  ladies  as  resplen- 
dent as  the  first,  but  crowned  with  fresh  flowers.  These 
were  the  servants  of  the  Flower.  They  alighted,  and 
began  to  dance  in  the  meadow.  But  heavy  clouds 
appeared  in  the  sky,  and  a  storm  broke  out.  They 
wished  to  shelter  themselves  under  the  oak,  but  there 
was  no  more  room ;  they  ensconced  themselves  as  they 
could  in  the  hedges  and  among  the  brushwood ;  the  rain 
came  down  and  spoiled  their  garlands,  stained  their 
robes,  and  washed  away  their  ornaments ;  when  the 
sun  returned,  they  went  to  ask  succour  from  the  queen 
of  the  Leaf ;  she,  being  merciful,  consoled  them,  repaired 
the  injury  of  the  rain,  and  restored  their  original  beauty. 
Then  all  disappears  as  in  a  dream. 

The  lady  was  astonished,  when  suddenly  a  fair  dame 
appeared  and  instructed  her.  She  learned  that  the 
servants  of  the  Leaf  had  lived  like  brave  knights,  and 
those  of  the  Flower  had  loved  idleness  and  pleasure. 
She  promises  to  serve  the  Leaf,  and  came  away. 

Is  this  an  allegory  ?  There  is  at  least  a  lack  of  wit. 
There  is  no  ingenious  enigma ;  it  is  dominated  by  fancy, 
and  the  poet  thinks  only  of  displaying  in  quiet  verse 
the  fleeting  and  brilliant  train  which  had  amused  his 
mind,  and  charmed  his  eyes. 

Chaucer  himself,  on  the  first  of  May,  rises  and  goes 
out  into  the  meadows.  Love  enters  his  heart  with  the 


190  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

balmy  air ;  the  landscape  is  transfigured,  and  the  birds 
begin  to  speak : 

There  sate  I  downe  among  the  faire  flours, 
And  saw  the  birds  trip  out  of  hir  hours, 
There  as  they  rested  hem  all  the  night, 
They  were  so  joyfull  of  the  dayes  light, 
They  began  of  May  for  to  done  honours. 

They  coud  that  service  all  by  rote, 
There  was  many  a  lovely  note, 
Some  song  loud  as  they  had  plained, 
And  some  in  other  manner  voice  yfained 
And  some  all  out  with  the  ful  throte. 

The  proyned  hem  and  made  hem  right  gay, 
And  daunceden,  and  lepten  on  the  spray, 
And  evermore  two  and  two  in  fere, 
Right  so  as  they  had  chosen  hem  to  yere, 
In  Feverere  upon  saint  Valentines  day. 

And  the-river  that  I  sate  upon, 
It  made  such  a  noise  as  it  ron, 
Accordaunt  with  the  birdes  armony, 
Methought  it  was  the  best  melody 
That  might  ben  yheard  of  any  mon." l 

This  confused  harmony  of  vague  noises  troubles  the 
sense ;  a  secret  languor  enters  the  soul.  The  cuckoo 
throws  his  monotonous  voice  like  a  mournful  and  tender 
sigh  between  the  white  ash-tree  boles  ;  the  nightingale 
makes  his  triumphant  notes  roll  and  ring  above  the 
leafy  canopy ;  fancy  breaks  in  unsought,  and  Chaucer 
hears  them  dispute  of  Love.  They  sing  alternately  an 
antistrophic  song,  and  the  nightingale  weeps  for  vexation 
to  hear  the  cuckoo  speak  in  depreciation  of  Love.  He 

1  The  Cuekow  and  Nightingale,  vl  p.  121,  L  67-86. 


CHAP.  m.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  191 

is  consoled,  however,  by  the  poet's  voice,  seeing  that  he 
also  suffers  with  him  : 

"  '  For  love  and  it  hath  doe  me  much  wo.* 
'  Ye  use '  (quod  she)  '  this  medicine 
Every  day  this  May  or  thou  dine 
Go  looke  upon  the  fresh  daisie, 
And  though  thou  be  for  wo  in  point  to  die, 
That  shall  full  greatly  lessen  thee  of  thy  pine. 

'  And  looke  alway  that  thou  he  good  and  trew, 
And  I  wol  sing  one  of  the  songes  new, 
For  love  of  thee,  as  loud  as  I  may  crie :' 
And  than  she  began  this  song  full  hie, 

'  I  shrewe  all  hem  that  been  of  love  untrue.'  "a 

To  such  exquisite  delicacies  love,  as  with  Petrarch, 
had  carried  poetry ;  by  refinement  even,  as  with  Pe- 
trarch, it  is  lost  now  and  then  in  its  wit,  conceits, 
clinches.  But  a  marked  characteristic  at  once  separates 
it  from  Petrarch.  If  over-excited,  it  is  also  grace- 
ful, polished,  full  of  archness,  banter,  fine  sensual 
gaiety,  somewhat  gossipy,  as  the  French  always  paint 
love.  Chaucer  follows  his  true  masters,  and  is  himself 
an  elegant  speaker,  facile,  ever  ready  to  smile,  loving 
choice  pleasures,  a  disciple  of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  and 
much  less  Italian  than  French.2  The  bent  of  French 
character  makes  of  love  not  a  passion,  but  a  gay  banquet, 
tastefully  arranged,  in  which  the  service  is  elegant,  the 
food  exquisite,  the  silver  brilliant,  the  two  guests  in  full 
dress,  in  good  humour,  quick  to  anticipate  and  please 
each  other,  knowing  how  to  keep  up  the  gaiety,  and 
when  to  part.  In  Chaucer,  without  doubt,  this  other 

1  The  Cuckow  and  Nightingale,  vi.  p.  126,  I.  230-241. 
*  Stendhal,  On  Love  :  the  difference  of  Love-taste  and  Love-passion. 


192  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

altogether  worldly  vein  runs  side  by  side  with  the 
sentimental  element.  If  Troilus  is  a  weeping  lover, 
Pandarus  is  a  lively  rascal,  who  volunteers  for  a  singu- 
lar service  with  amusing  urgency,  frank  immorality, 
and  carries  it  out  carefully,  gratuitously,  thoroughly. 
In  these  pretty  attempts  Chaucer  accompanies  him  as 
far  as  possible,  and  is  not  shocked.  On  the  contrary, 
he  makes  fun  out  of  it.  At  the  critical  moment,  with 
transparent  hypocrisy,  he  shelters  himself  behind  his 
"  author."  If  you  find  the  particulars  free,  he  says,  it  is 
not  my  fault ;  "  so  writen  clerks  in  hir  bokes  old,"  and 
"  I  mote,  aftir  min  auctour,  telle  .  .  ."  Not  only  is 
he  gay,  tut  he  jests  throughout  the  whole  tale.  He 
sees  clearly  through  the  tricks  of  feminine  modesty  ;  he 
laughs  at  it  archly,  knowing  full  well  what  is  behind ; 
he  seems  to  be  saying,  finger  on  lip :  "  Hush  !  let  the 
grand  words  roll  on,  you  will  be  edified  presently." 
We  are,  in  fact,  edified ;  so  is  he,  and  in  the  nick  of 
time  he  goes  away,  carrying  the  light :  "  For  ought  I 
can  aspies,  this  light  nor  I  ne  serven  here  of  nought" 
"  Troilus,"  says  uncle  Pandarus,  "  if  ye  be  wise,  sweven- 
eth  not  now,  lest  more  folke  arise."  Troilus  takes  care 
not  to  swoon ;  and  Oessida  at  last,  being  alone  with 
him,  speaks  wittily  and  with  prudent  delicacy ;  there 
is  here  an  exceeding  charm,  no  coarseness.  Their 
happiness  covers  all,  even  voluptuousness,  with  a  pro- 
fusion and  perfume  of  its  heavenly  roses.  At  most  a 
slight  spice  of  archness  flavours  it :  "  and  gode  thrift  he 
had  full  oft."  Troilus  holds  his  mistress  in  his  arms  : 
"  with  worse  hap  God  let  us  never  mete."  The  poet  is 
almost  as  well  pleased  as  they  :  for  him,  as  for  the  men 
of  his  time,  the  sovereign  good  is  love,  not  damped,  but 
satisfied ;  they  ended  even  by  thinking  such  love  a 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  193 

merit  The  ladies  declared  in  their  judgments,  that 
when  people  love,  they  can  refuse  nothing  to  the 
beloved.  Love  has  become  law ;  it  is  inscribed  in  a 
code ;  they  combine  it  with  religion ;  and  there  is  a 
sacrament  of  love,  in  which  the  birds  in  their  anthems 
sing  matins.1  Chaucer  curses  with  all  his  heart  the 
covetous  wretches,  the  business  men,  who  treat  it  as  a 
madness  : 

"  As  would  God,  tho  wretches  that  despise 
Service  of  love  had  eares  al  so  long 
As  had  Mida,  ful  of  covetise,  .... 
To  teachen  hem,  that  they  been  in  the  vice 
And  lovers  not,  although  they  hold  hem  nice, 
.  .  .  God  yeve  hem  mischaunce, 
And  every  lover  in  his  trouth  avaunce."8 

He  clearly  lacks  severity,  so  rare  in  southern  literature. 
The  Italians  in  the  middle  age  made  a  virtue  of  joy ;  and 
you  perceive  that  the  world  of  chivalry,  as  conceived  by 
the  French,  expanded  morality  so  as  to  confound  it 
with  pleasure. 

rv. 

There  are  other  characteristics  still  more  gay.  The 
true  Gallic  literature  crops  up ;  obscene  tales,  practical 
jokes  on  one's  neighbour,  not  shrouded  in  the  Ciceronian 
style  of  Boccaccio,  but  related  lightly  by  a  man  in  good 
humour;3  above  all,  active  roguery,  the  trick  of  laughing 
at  your  neighbour's  expense.  Chaucer  displays  it  better 
than  Rutebeuf,  and  sometimes  better  than  La  Fontaine. 
He  does  not  knock  his  men  down ;  he  pricks  them  as 

1  The  Court  of  Low,  about  1353,  et  aeq.  See  also  the  Testament  of 
Love. 

*  Trottvj  and  Cressida,  vol.  v.  iii.  pp.  44,  46. 

*  The  story  of  the  pear-tree  (Merchant's  Tale),  and  of  the  cradle 
(Reeve's  Tale),  for  instance,  in  the  Canterbury  Tales. 

VOL.  I.  0 


194  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

he  passes,  not  from  deep  hatred  or  indignation,  but 
through  sheer  nimbleness  of  disposition,  and  quick  sense 
of  the  ridiculous;  he  throws  his  gibes  at  them  by 
handfuls.  His  man  of  law  is  more  a  man  of  business 
than  of  the  world : 

"  No  wher  so  besy  a  man  as  he  ther  n'as, 
And  yet  he  seined  besier  than  he  was."1 

His  three  burgesses : 

"  Everich,  for  the  wisdom  that  he  can 
Was  shapelich  for  to  ben  an  alderman. 
For  catel  hadden  they  ynough  and  rent, 
And  eke  hir  wives  wolde  it  wel  assent."2 

Of  the  mendicant  Friar  he  says : 

"  His  wallet  lay  beforne  him  in  his  lappe, 
Bret-ful  of  pardon  come  from  Rome  al  hote."3 

The  mockery  here  comes  from  the  heart,  in  the  French 
manner,  without  effort,  calculation,  or  vehemence.  It 
is  so  pleasant  and  so  natural  to  banter  one's  neighbour ! 
Sometimes  the  lively  vein  becomes  so  copious,  that  it 
furnishes  an  entire  comedy,  indelicate  certainly,  but  so 
free  and  life-like !  Here  is  the  portrait  of  the  Wife  of 
Bath,  who  has  buried  five  husbands ; 

"  Bold  was  hire  face,  and  fayre  and  rede  of  hew, 
She  was  a  worthy  woman  all  hire  live ; 
Housboudes  at  the  chirche  dore  had  she  had  five.. 
Withouten  other  compagnie  in  youthe.  .  .  . 
In  all  the  parish  wif  ne  was  ther  non, 
That  to  the  offring  before  hire  shulde  gon, 
And  if  ther  did,  certain  so  wroth  was  she, 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee."4 

1  Canterbury  Tales,  prologuet  p.  10,  I.  323.        *  Ibid.  p.  12,  I.  378. 
3  Ibid.  p.  21,  I.  688.  *  Ibid,  ii.  prologue,  p.  14,  I.  460. 


OHAP.  HI.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  195 

What  a  tongue  she  has !  Impertinent,  full  of  vanity, 
bold,  chattering,  unbridled,  she  silences  everybody,  and 
holds  forth  for  an  hour  before  coming  to  her  tale. 
We  hear  her  grating,  high-pitched,  loud,  clear  voice, 
wherewith  she  deafened  her  husbands.  She  continually 
harps  upon  the  same  ideas,  repeats  her  reasons,  piles 
them  up  and  confounds  them,  like  a  stubborn  mule  who 
runs  along  shaking  and  ringing  his  bells,  so  that  the 
stunned  listeners  remain  open-mouthed,  wondering  that 
a  single  tongue  can  spin  out  so  many  words.  The 
subject  was  worth  the  trouble.  She  proves  that  she 
did  well  to  marry  five  husbands,  and  she  proves  it 
clearly,  like  a  woman  who  knew  it,  because  she  had 
tried  it : 

"  God  bad  us  for  to  wex  and  multiplie ; 
That  gentil  text  can  I  wel  understand ; 
Eke  wel  I  wot,  he  sayd,  that  min  husbond 
Shuld  leve  fader  and  moder,  and  take  to  me ; 
But  of  no  noumbre  mention  made  he, 
Of  bigamie  or  of  octogamie ; 
Why  shuld  men  than  speke  of  it  vilanie  ? 
Lo  here  the  wise  king  dan  Solomon, 
I  trow  he  hadde  wives  mo  than  on, 
(As  wolde  God  it  leful  were  to  me 
To  be  refreshed  half  so  oft  as  he,)  , 

Which  a  gift  of  God  had  he  for  alle  his  wives  ?  .  .  . 
Blessed  be  God  that  I  have  wedded  five. 
Welcome  the  sixthe  whan  that  ever  he  shall.  .  .  . 
He  (Christ)  spake  to  hem  that  wold  live  parfitly, 
And  lordmgs  (by  your  leve),  that  am  nat  I ; 
I  wol  bestow  the  flour  of  all  myn  age 
In  th'  actes  and  the  fruit  of  mariage.  .  .  . 
An  husbond  wol  I  have,  I  wol  not  lette, 
Which  shal  be  both  my  dettour  and  my  thrall, 


196  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i 

And  have  his  tribulation  withall 

Upon  his  flesh,  while  that  I  am  his  wif."1 

Here  Chaucer  has  the  freedom  of  Moliere,  and  we  possess 
it  no  longer.  His  good  wife  justifies  marriage  in  terms 
just  as  technical  as  Sganarelle.  It  behoves  us  to  turn 
the  pages  quickly,  and  follow  in  the  lump  only  this 
Odyssey  of  marriages.  The  experienced  wife,  who  has 
journeyed  through  life  with  five  husbands,  knows  'the 
art  of  taming  them,  and  relates  how  she  persecuted  them 
with  jealousy,  suspicion,  grumbling,  quarrels,  blows  given 
and  received;  how  the  husband,  checkmated  by  the 
continuity  of  the  tempest,  stooped  at  last,  accepted  the 
halter,  and  turned  the  domestic  mill  like  a  conjugal  and 
resigned  ass : 

"  For  as  an  hors,  I  coude  bite  and  whine ; 
I  coude  plain,  and  I  was  in  the  gilt.  .  .  . 
I  plained  first,  so  was  our  werre  ystint. 
They  were  ful  glad  to  excusen  hem  ful  blive 
Of  thing,  the  which  they  never  agilt  hir  live.  .  .  . 
I  swore  that  all  my  walking  out  by  night 
Was  for  to  espien  wenches  that  he  dight.  .  .  . 
For  though  the  pope  had  sitten  hem  beside, 
I  wold  not  spare  hem  at  hir  owen  bord.  .  .  . 
But  certainly  I  made  folk  swiche  chere, 
That  in  his  owen  grese  I  made  him  frie 
For  anger,  and  for  veray  jalousie. 
By  God,  in  erth  I  was  his  purgatorie, 
For  which  I  hope  his  soule  be  in  glorie."2 

She  saw  the  fifth  first  at  the  burial  of  the  fourth : 

"  And  Jankin  oure  clerk  was  on  of  tho : 
As  helpe  me  God,  whan  that  I  saw  him  go 

1  Canterbury  Tales,  ii.  Wife  of  Bath's  Prologue,  p.  168,  I  5610-678°. 
8  Ibid,  ii.  p.  179,  I.  5968-6072. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  197 

Affcir  the  here,  me  thought  he  had  a  paire 

Of  legges  and  of  feet,  so  clene  and  faire, 

That  all  ray  herte  I  yave  unto  his  hold. 

He  was,  I  trow,  a  twenty  winter  old, 

And  I  was  fourty,  if  I  shal  say  soth.  .  .  . 

As  helpe  me  God,  I  was  a  lusty  on, 

And  faire,  and  riche,  and  yonge,  and  well  begon."1 

"  Yonge,"  what  a  word  !  Was  human  delusion  ever  more 
happily  painted  ?  How  life-like  is  all,  and  how  easy 
the  tone.  It  is  the  satire  of  marriage.  You  will  find 
it  twenty  times  in  Chaucer.  Nothing  more  is  wanted 
to  exhaust  the  two  subjects  of  French  mockery,  than  to 
unite  with  the  satire  of  marriage  the  satire  of  religion. 
"We  find  it  here;  and  Eabelais  is  not  more  bitter. 
The  monk  whom  Chaucer  paints  is  a  hypocrite,  a  jolly 
fellow,  who  knows  good  inns  and  jovial  hosts  better  than 
the  poor  and  the  hospitals : 

"  A  Frere  there  was,  a  wanton  and  a  mery  .  .  . 
Fui  wel  beloved,  and  familier  was  he 
With  frankeleins  over  all  in  his  contree, 
And  eke  with  worthy  wimmen  of  the  toun.  .  .  . 
Full  swetely  herde  he  confession, 
And  pleasant  was  his  absolution. 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  give  penance, 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  han  a  good  pitance  : 
For  unto  a  poure  ordre  for  to  give 
Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  yshrive.  .  .  . 
And  knew  wel  the  tavernes  in  every  toun, 
And  every  hosteler  and  gay  tapstere, 
Better  than  a  lazar  and  a  beggere.  .  .  . 
It  is  not  honest,  it  may  not  avance, 
As  for  to  delen  with  no  swich  pouraille, 
But  all  with  riche  and  sellers  of  vitaille.  .  .  . 
i  Canterbury  Tales,  Wife  of  Bath's  Prologue,  p.  185,  I.  6177-6188. 


198  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte, 
He  may  not  wepe,  although  him  sore  smerte. 
Therfore  in  stede  of  weping  and  praieres, 
Men  mote  give  silver  to  the  poure  freres."1 

This  lively  irony  had  an  exponent  before  in  Jean  de 
Meung.  But  Chaucer  pushes  it  further,  and  gives  it  life 
and  motion.  His  monk  begs  from  house  to  house,  hold- 
ing out  his  wallet : 

"  In  every  hous  he  gan  to  pore  and  prie, 
And  begged  mele  and  chese,  or  elles  corn.  .  .  . 

'  Yeve  us  a  bushel  whete,  or  malt,  or  reye, 
A  Goddes  kichel,  or  a  trippe  of  chese, 
Or  elles  what  you  list,  we  may  not  chese  ; 
A  Goddes  halfpeny,  or  a  masse  peny ; 
Or  yeve  us  of  your  braun,  if  ye  have  any, 
A  dagon  of  your  blanket,  leve  dame, 
Our  suster  dere  (lo  here  I  write  your  name).'  .  .  . 
And  whan  that  he  was  out  at  dore,  anon, 
He  planed  away  the  names  everich  on."2 

He  has  kept  for  the  end  of  his  circuit,  Thomas,  one  of 
his  most  liberal  clients.     He  finds  him  in  bed,  and  ill ; 
here  is  excellent  fruit  to  suck  and  squeeze : 
"  '  God  wot,'  quod  he,  '  laboured  have  I  ful  sore, 

And  specially  for  thy  salvation, 

Have  I  sayd  many  a  precious  orison.  .  .  . 

I  have  this  day  ben  at  your  chirche  at  messe  .  .  . 

And  ther  I  saw  our  dame,  a,  wher  is  she  V"  8 
The  dame  enters : 

"  This  fr-ere  ariseth  up  ful  curtisly, 

And  hire  embraceth  in  his  armes  narwe, 

And  kisseth  hire  swete  and  chirketh  as  a  sparwe."4  .  .  . 

1  Canterbury  Tales,  prologue,  ii.  p.  7,  I.  208  et  passim. 
1  Ibid.  The  Sompnoures  Tale,  ii.  p.  220,  I.  7319-7340. 
»  Ibid.  p.  221,  1.  7366.  «  Ibid.  p.  221, 1.  7384 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  199 

Then,  in  his  sweetest  and  most  caressing  voice,  he  com- 
pliments her,  and  says : 

" '  Thanked  be  God  that  you  yaf  soule  and  lif, 
Yet  saw  I  not  this  day  so  faire  a  wif 
In  all  the  chirche,  God  so  save  me.'"1 

Have  we  not  here  already  Tartuffe  and  Elmire  ?  But 
the  monk  is  with  a  farmer,  and  can  go  to  work  more 
quickly  and  directly.  When  the  compliments  ended, 
he  thinks  of  the  substance  and  asks  the  lady  to  let 
him  talk  alone  with  Thomas.  He  must  inquire  after 
the  state  of  his  soul : 

"  '  I  wol  with  Thomas  speke  a  litel  throw  : 
Thise  curates  ben  so  negligent  and  slow 
To  gropen  tendrely  a  conscience.  .  .  . 
Now,  dame,'  quod  he,  'jeo  vous  die  sanz  doute, 
Have  I  nat  of  a  capon  but  the  liver, 
And  of  your  white  bred  nat  but  a  shiver, 
And  after  that  a  rosted  pigges  hed 
(But  I  ne  wolde  for  me  no  beest  were  ded), 
Than  had  I  with  you  homly  suffisance. 
I  am  a  man  of  litel  sustenance, 
My  spirit  hath  his  fostring  in  the  Bible. 
My  body  is  ay  so  redy  and  penible 
To  waken,  that  my  stomak  is  destroied.' "  * 

Poor  man,  he  raises  his  hands  to  heaven,  and  ends  with 
a  sigh. 

The  wife  tells  him  her  child  died  a  fortnight  before. 
Straightway  he  manufactures  a  miracle ;  could  he  earn 
his  money  in  any  better  way  ?  He  had  a  revelation  of 
this  death  in  the  "  dortour  "  of  the  convent ;  he  saw  the 

1  Canterbury  Tales,  ii.  The  Sompnoures  Tale,  p.  222,  I.  7389. 
2  Ibid.  p.  222,  I.  7397-7429. 


200  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i 

child  carried  to  paradise;  he  rose  with  his  brothers, 
"  with  many  a  tere  trilling  on  our  cheke,"  and  they  sang 
a  Te  Deum : 

" '  For,  sire  and  dame,  trusteth  me  right  wel, 
Our  orisons  ben  more  effectuel, 
And  more  we  seen  of  Cristes  secree  thinges 
Than  borel  folk,  although  that  they  be  kinges. 
We  live  in  poverte,  and  in  abstinence, 
And  borel  folk  in  richesse  and  dispence.  .  . 
Lazer  and  Dives  liveden  diversely, 
And  divers  guerdon  hadden  they  therby.'"1 

Presently  he  spurts  out  a  whole  sermon,  in  a  loathsome 
style,  and  with  an  interest  which  is  plain  enough.  The 
sick  man,  wearied,  replies  that  he  has  already  given  half 
his  fortune  to  all  kinds  of  monks,  and  yet  he  continually 
suffers.  Listen  to  the  grieved  exclamation,  the  true 
indignation  of  the  mendicant  monk,  who  sees  himself 
threatened  by  the  competition  of  a  brother  of  the  cloth 
to  share  his  client,  his  revenue,  his  booty,  his  food- 
supplies  : 

"  The  frere  answered  :  '  0  Thomas,  dost  thou  so  ? 

What  nedeth  you  diverse  freres  to  seche  1 

What  nedeth  him  that  hath  a  parfit  leche, 

To  sechen  other  leches  in  the  toun  1 

Your  inconstance  is  your  confusion. 

Hold  ye  than  me,  or  elles  our  covent, 

To  pray  for  you  ben  insufficient  ? 

Thomas,  that  jape  n'  is  not  worth  a  mite, 

Your  maladie  is  for  we  han  to  lite.'  "2 

.Recognise  the  great  orator ;  he  employs  even  the  grand 
style  to  keep  the  supplies  from  being  cut  off: 

1  Owtteriwry  Tales,  ii.  The  S&mpnoures  Tale,  p.  223,  I.  7450-7460. 
8  Ibid.  p.  226,  I.  7536-7544. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  201 

"  '  A,  yeve  that  covent  half  a  quarter  otes ; 
And  yeve  that  covent  four  and  twenty  grotee ; 
And  yeve  that  frere  a  peny,  and  let  him  go : 
Nay,  nay,  Thomas,  it  may  no  thing  be  so. 
What  is  a  ferthing  worth  parted  on  twelve 
Lo,  eche  thing  that  is  oned  in  himself 
Is  more  strong,  than  whan  it  is  yscatered  .  .  . 
Thou  woldest  ban  our  labour  al  for  nought' " l 

Then  he  begins  again  his  sermon  in  a  louder  tone, 
shouting  at  each  word,  quoting  examples  from  Seneca 
and  the  classics,  a  terrible  fluency,  a  trick  of  his  trade, 
which,  diligently  applied,  must  draw  money  from  the 
patient.  He  asks  for  gold,  "  to  make  our  cloistre," 

"  .  .  .  '  And  yet,  God  wot,  uneth  the  fundament 
Parfourmed  is,  ne  of  our  pavement 
N'  is  not  a  tile  yet  within  our  wones  ; 
By  God,  we  owen  fourty  pound  for  stones. 
Now  help  Thomas,  for  him  that  harwed  helle, 
For  elles  mote  we  oure  bokes  selle, 
And  if  ye  lacke  oure  predication, 
Than  goth  this  world  all  to  destruction. 
For  who  so  fro  this  world  wold  us  bereve. 
So  God  me  save,  Thomas,  by  your  leve, 
He  wold  bereve  out  of  this  world  the  sonne.'  "  2 

In  the  end,  Thomas  in  a  rage  promises  him  a  gift,  tells 
him  to  put  his  hand  in  the  bed  and  take  it,  and  sends 
him  away  duped,  mocked,  and  covered  with  filth. 

We  have  descended  now  to  popular  farce :  when 
amusement  must  be  had  at  any  price,  it  is  sought,  as 
here,  in  broad  jokes,  even  in  filthiness.  We  can  see  how 
these  two  coarse  and  vigorous  plants  have  blossomed  in 

1  Canterbury  Tales,  ii.  The  Sompnoures  Tale,  p.  226,  1.  7646-7658. 
s  Una.  p.  230, 1.  7686-7695. 


202  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  z. 

the  dung  of  the  middle  age.  Planted  by  the  sly  fellows 
of  Champagne  and  Ile-de-France,  watered  by  the  trou- 
vbres,  they  were  destined  fully  to  expand,  speckled  and 
ruddy,  in  the  large  hands  of  Rabelais.  Meanwhile 
Chaucer  plucks  his  nosegay  from  it.  Deceived  husbands, 
mishaps  in  inns,  accidents  in  bed,  cuffs,  kicks,  and  rob- 
beries, these  suffice  to  raise  a  loud  laugh.  Side  by  side 
with  noble  pictures  of  chivalry,  he  gives  us  a  train  of 
Flemish  grotesque  figures,  carpenters,  joiners,  friars, 
summoners;  blows  abound,  fists  descend  on  fleshy  backs; 
many  nudities  are  shown ;  they  swindle  one  another  out 
of  their  corn,  their  wives ;  they  pitch  one  another  out 
of  a  window ;  they  brawl  and  quarrel.  A  bruise,  a  piece 
of  open  filthiness,  passes  in  such  society  for  a  sign  of 
wit.  The  summoner,  being  rallied  by  the  friar,  gives 
him  tit  for  tat : 

" '  This  Frere  bosteth  that  he  knoweth  helle, 
And,  God  it  wot,  that  is  but  litel  wonder, 
Freres  and  fendes  ben  but  litel  asonder. 
For  parde,  ye  ban  often  time  herd  telle 
How  that  a  Frere  ravished  was  to  helle 
In  spirit  ones  by  a  visioun, 
And  as  an  angel  lad  him  up  and  doun, 
To  shewen  him  the  peines  that  ther  were,  .  .  . 
And  unto  Sathanas  he  lad  him  doun. 
(And  now  hath  Sathanas,'  saith  he,  '  a  tayl 
Broder  than  of  a  Carrike  is  the  sayl.) 
Hold  up  thy  tayl,  thou  Sathanas,  quod  he, 

and  let  the  Frere  see 

Wher  is  the  nest  of  Freres  in  this  place. 
And  er  than  half  a  furlong  way  of  space, 
Right  so  as  bees  out  swarmen  of  an  hive, 
Out  of  the  devils  .  .  .  ther  gonnen  to  driva 
A  twenty  thousand  Freres  on  a  route, 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  203 

And  thurghout  hell  they  swarmed  al  aboute, 
And  com  agen,  as  fast  as  they  may  gon.'  "  1 

Such  were  the  coarse  buffooneries  of  the  popular  im- 
agination. 

V. 

It  is  high  time  to  return  to  Chaucer  himself.  Beyond 
the  two  notable  characteristics  which  settle  his  place  in 
his  age  and  school  of  poetry,  there  are  others  which  take 
him  out  of  his  age  and  school.  If  he  was  romantic  and 
gay  like  the  rest,  it  was  after  a  fashion  of  his  own.  He 
observes  characters,  notes  their  differences,  studies  the 
coherence  of  their  parts,  endeavours  to  describe  living 
individualities, — a  thing  unheard  of  in  his  time,  but 
which  the  renovators  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and 
first  among  them  Shakspeare,  will  do  afterwards.  Is  it 
already  the  English  positive  common  sense  and  aptitude 
for  seeing  the  inside  of  things  which  begins  to  appear  ? 
A  new  spirit,  almost  manly,  pierces  through,  in  litera- 
ture as  in  painting,  with  Chaucer  as  with  Van  Eyck, 
with  both  at  the  same  time ;  no  longer  the  childish 
imitation  of  chivalrous  life 2  or  monastic  devotion,  but 
the  grave  spirit  of  inquiry  and  craving  for  deep  truths, 
whereby  art  becomes  complete.  For  the  first  time,  in 
Chaucer  as  in  Van  Eyck,  the  character  described  stands 
out  in  relief ;  its  parts  are  connected ;  it  is  no  longer  an 
unsubstantial  phantom.  You  may  guess  its  past  and  fore- 
tell its  future  action.  Its  externals  manifest  the  personal 
and  incommunicable  details  of  its  inner  nature,  and  the 

1  Canterbury  Tales,  ii.  The  Sompnoures  Prologue,  p.  217,  I.  7254- 
7279. 

3  See  in  The  Canterbury  Tales  the  Rhyme  of  Sir  Topas,  a  parody  on 
the  chivalric  histories.  Each  character  there  seems  a  precursor  of 
Cervantes. 


204  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

infinite  complexity  of  its  economy  and  motion.  To 
this  day,  after  four  centuries,  that  character  is  individu- 
alised, and  typical;  it  remains  distinct  in  our  memory, 
like  the  creations  of  Shakspeare  and  Rubens.  We 
observe  this  growth  in  the  very  act.  Not  only  does 
Chaucer,  like  Boccaccio,  bind  his  tales  into  a  single 
history ;  but  in  addition — and  this  is  wanting  in  Boc- 
caccio— he  begins  with  the  portrait  of  all  his  narrators, 
knight,  summoner,  man  of  law,  monk,  bailiff  or  reeve, 
host,  about  thirty  distinct  figures,  of  every  sex,  condition, 
age,  each  painted  with  his  disposition,  face,  costume, 
turns  of  speech,  little  significant  actions,  habits,  ante- 
cedents, each  maintained  in  his  character  by  his  talk  and 
subsequent  actions,  so  that  we  can  discern  here,  sooner 
than  in  any  other  nation,  the  germ  of  the  domestic  novel 
as  we  write  it  to-day.  Think  of  the  portraits  of  the 
franklin,  the  miller,  the  mendicant  friar,  and  wife  of 
Bath.  There  are  plenty  of  others  which  show  the  broad 
brutalities,  the  coarse  tricks,  and  the  pleasantries  of 
vulgar  life,  as  well  as  the  gross  and  plentiful  feastings  of 
sensual  life.  Here  and  there  honest  old  swashbucklers, 
who  double  their  fists,  and  tuck  up  their  sleeves ;  or  con- 
tented beadles,  who,  when  they  have  drunk,  will  speak 
nothing  but  Latin.  But  by  the  side  of  these  there  are 
some  choice  characters;  the  knight,  who  went  on  a 
crusade  to  Granada  and  Prussia,  brave  and  courteous : 

"  And  though  that  he  was  worthy  he  was  wise, 
And  of  his  port  as  meke  as  is  a  inayde. 
He  never  yet  no  vilanie  ne  sayde 
In  alle  his  lif,  unto  no  manere  wight, 
He  was  a  veray  parfit  gentil  knight."1 

1  Prologue  to  Canterbury  Tales,  ii.  p.  3,  I.  68-^2. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  205 

"  With  him,  ther  was  his  sone,  a  yonge  Squier, 
A  lover,  and  a  lusty  bacheler, 
With  lockes  crull  as  they  were  laide  in  presse, 
Of  twenty  yere  of  age  he  was  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  even  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  deliver,  and  grete  of  strengths. 
And  he  hadde  be  somtime  in  chevachie, 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artois,  and  in  Picardie, 
And  borne  him  wel,  as  of  so  litel  space, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  ladies  grace. 

Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede 
Alle  ful  of  fresshe  floures, white  and  rede. 
Singing  he  was,  or  floyting  alle  the  day, 
He  was  as  fresshe,  as  is  the  moneth  of  May. 
Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  long  and  wide. 
Wel  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  fayre  ride. 
He  coude  songes  make,  and  wel  endite, 
Juste  and  eke  dance,  and  wel  pourtraie  and  write. 
So  hote  he  loved,  that  by  nightertale 
He  slep  no  more  than  doth  the  nightingale. 
Curteis  he  was,  lowly  and  servisable, 
And  carf  befor  his  fader  at  the  table." 1 

There  is  also  a  poor  and  learned  clerk  of  Oxford ;  and 
finer  still,  and  more  worthy  of  a  modern  hand,  the 
Prioress,  "  Madame  Eglantine,"  who  as  a  nun,  a  maiden, 
a  great  lady,  is  ceremonious,  and  shows  signs  of  exquisite 
taste.  Would  a  better  be  found  now-a-days  in  a  Ger- 
man chapter,  amid  the  most  modest  and  lively  bevy  of 
sentimental  and  literary  canonesses  ? 

".Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hire  smiling  was  ful  simple  and  coy 
Hire  gretest  othe  n'as  but  by  Seint  Eloy ; 
And  she  was  cleped  Madame  Eglentine. 

1  Prologue  to  Canterbury  Tales,  ii.  p.  3,  I.  79-100, 


206  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

Ful  wel  she  sange  the  service  devine, 

Entuned  in  hire  nose  ful  swetely  ; 

And  Frenche  she  spake  ful  fayre  and  fetisly 

After  the  scole  of  Stratford-atte-bowe, 

For  Frenche  of  Paris,  was  to  hire  unknowe. 

At  mete  was  she  wel  ytaughte  withalle ; 

She  lette  no  morsel  from  hire  lippes  falle, 

Ne  wette  hire  fingres  in  hire  sauce  depe. 

Wel  couds  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 

Thatte  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest. 

In  curtesie  was  sette  ful  moche  hire  lest. 

Hire  over  lippe  wiped  she  so  clene, 

That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  ferthing  sene 

Of  grese,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hire  draught, 

Ful  semely  after  hire  mete  she  raught. 

And  sikerly  she  was  of  grete  disport 

And  ful  plesant,  and  amiable  of  port, 

And  peined  hire  to  contrefeten  chere 

Of  court,  and  ben  estatelich  of  manere, 

And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence." l 

Are  you  offended  by  these  provincial  affectations  ? 
Not  at  all ;  it  is  delightful  to  behold  these  nice  and 
pretty  ways,  these  little  affectations,  the  waggery  and 
prudery,  the  half-worldly,  half-monastic  smile.  We 
inhale  a  delicate  feminine  perfume,  preserved  and  grown 
old  under  the  stomacher : 

"  But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience, 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous, 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saw  a  mous 
Caughte  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  ded  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rosted  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wastel  brede. 
But  sore  wept  she  if  on  of  hem  were  dede, 

1  Prologue  to  Canterbury  Tales,  ii.  p.  4,  I.  118-141. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  207 

Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a  yerde  smert  : 
And  all  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte." l 

Many  elderly  ladies  throw  themselves  into  such  affec- 
tions as  these,  for  lack  of  others.  Elderly !  what  an 
objectionable  word  have  I  employed  !  She  was  not 
elderly : 

"  Ful  semely  hire  wimple  ypinched  was, 

Hire  nose  tretis ;  hire  eyen  grey  as  glas  ; 

Hire  mouth  ful  smale,  and  therto  soft  and  red , 

But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fayre  forehed. 

It  was  almost  a  spanne  brode  I  trowe  ; 

For  hardily  she  was  not  undergrowe. 
Ful  fetise  was  hire  cloke,  as  I  was  ware. 

Of  small  corall  aboute  hire  arm  she  bare 

A  pair  of  bedea,  gauded  al  with  grene ; 

And  thereon  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene, 

On  whiche  was  first  ywritten  a  crouned  A, 

And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia" 2 

A  pretty  ambiguous  device,  suitable  either  for  gallantry 
or  devotion ;  the  lady  was  both  of  the  world  and  the 
cloister :  of  the  world,  you  may  see  it  in  her  dress ;  of 
the  cloister,  you  gather  it  from  "  another  Nonne  also 
with  hire  hadde  she,  that  was  hire  chapelleine,  and 
Preestes  thre ;"  from  the  Ave  Maria  which  she  sings, 
the  long  edifying  stories  which  she  relates.  She  is  like 
a  fresh,  sweet,  and  ruddy  cherry,  made  to  ripen  in  the 
sun,  but  which,  preserved  in  an  ecclesiastical  jar,  has 
become  candied  and  insipid  in  the  syrup. 

Such  is  the  power  of  reflection  which  begins  to  dawn, 
such  the  high  art.  Chaucer  studies  here,  rather  than  aims 
at  amusement ;  he  ceases  to  gossip,  and  thinks ;  instead 

1  Prologue  to  Canterbury  Tales,  ii.  p.  5,  1.  142-150. 
*  Ibid.  1.  151-162. 


208  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  t 

of  surrendering  himself  to  the  facility  of  flowing  im 
provisation,  he  plans.  Each  tale  is  suited  to  the  teller : 
the  young  squire  relates  a  fantastic  and  Oriental  history ; 
the  tipsy  miller  a  loose  and  comical  story ;  the  honest 
clerk  the  touching  legend  of  Griselda.  All  these  tales 
are  bound  together,  and  that  much  better  than  by  Boc- 
caccio, by  little  veritable  incidents,  which  spring  from 
the  characters  of  the  personages,  and  such  as  we  light 
upon  in  our  travels.  The  horsemen  ride  on  in  good 
humour  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  open  country ;  they  con- 
verse. The  miller  has  drunk  too  much  ale,  and  will 
speak,  "  and  for  no  man  forbere."  The  cook  goes  to 
sleep  on  his  beast,  and  they  play  practical  jokes  on  him. 
The  monk  and  the  summoner  get  up  a  dispute  about 
their  respective  lines  of  business.  The  host  restores 
peace,  makes  them  speak  or  be  silent,  like  a  man  who 
has  long  presided  in  the  inn  parlour,  and  who  has  often 
had  to  check  brawlers.  They  pass  judgment  on  the 
stories  they  listen  to  :  declaring  that  there  are  few 
Griseldas  in  the  world ;  laughing  at  the  misadventures 
of  the  tricked  carpenter ;  drawing  a  lesson  from  the 
moral  tale.  The  poem  is  no  longer,  as  in  the  contempo- 
rary literature,  a  mere  procession,  but  a  painting  in 
which  the  contrasts  are  arranged,  the  attitudes  chosen, 
the  general  effect  calculated,  so  that  it  becomes  life  and 
motion ;  we  forget  ourselves  at  the  sight,  as  in  the  case 
of  every  life-like  work ;  and  we  long  to  get  on  horse- 
back on  a  fine  sunny  morning,  and  canter  along  green 
meadows  with  the  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  of  the  good 
saint  of  Canterbury. 

Weigh  the  value  of  the  words  "general  effect." 
According  as  we  plan  it  or  not,  we  enter  on  our 
maturity  or  infancy  ?  The  whole  future  lies  in  these 


V-I.  P-2o8. 


CARDINAL   WOLSEY 


CHAP.  m.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  209 

two  words.  Savages  or  half  savages,  warriors  of  the 
Heptarchy  or  knights  of  the  middle-age;  up  to  this 
period,  no  one  had  reached  to  this  point.  They  had 
strong  emotions,  tender  at  times,  and  each  expressed 
them  according  to  the  original  gift  of  his  race,  some  by 
short  cries,  others  by  continuous  babble.  But  they  did 
not  command  or  guide  their  impressions ;  they  sang  or 
conversed  by  impulse,  at  random,  according  to  the  bent 
of  their  disposition,  leaving  their  ideas  to  present 
themselves  as  they  might,  and  when  they  hit  upon 
order,  it  was  ignorantly  and  involuntarily.  Here  for 
the  first  time  appears  a  superiority  of  intellect,  which 
at  the  instant  of  conception  suddenly  halts,  rises  above 
itself,  passes  judgment,  and  says  to  itself,  "  This  phrase 
tells  the  same  thing  as  the  last — remove  it;  these  two 
ideas  are  disjointed — connect  them;  this  description 
is  feeble — reconsider  it."  When  a  man  can  speak  thus 
he  has  an  idea,  not  learned  in  the  schools,  but  personal 
and  practical,  of  the  human  mind,  its  process  and  needs, 
and  of  things  also,  their  composition  and  combinations ; 
he  has  a  style,  that  is,  he  is  capable  of  making  every- 
thing understood  and  seen  by  the  human  mind.  He 
can  extract  from  every  object,  landscape,  situation,  char- 
acter, the  special  and  significant  marks,  so  as  to  group 
and  arrange  them,  in  order  to  compose  an  artificial 
work  which  surpasses  the  natural  work  in  its  purity 
and  completeness.  He  is  capable,  as  Chaucer  was,  of 
seeking  out  in  the  old  common  forest  of  the  middle- 
ages,  stories  and  legends,  to  replant  them  in  his  own 
soil,  and  make  them  send  out  new  shoots.  He  has  the 
right  and  the  power,  as  Chaucer  had,  of  copying  and 
translating,  because  by  dint  of  retouching  he  impresses 
on  his  translations  and  copies  his  original  mark;  he 
VOL.  i.  p 


210  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

re-creates  what  he  imitates,  because  through  or  by  the 
side  of  worn-out  fancies  and  monotonous  stories,  he  can 
display,  as  Chaucer  did,  the  charming  ideas  of  an 
amiable  and  elastic  mind,  the  thirty  master-forms  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  the  splendid  freshness  of  the 
verdurous  landscape  and  spring-time  of  England.  He 
is  not  far  from  conceiving  an  idea  of  truth  and  life. 
He  is  on  the  brink  of  independent  thought  and  fertile 
discovery.  This  was  Chaucer's  position.  At  the  dis- 
tance of  a  century  and  a  half,  he  has  affinity  with  the 
poets  of  Elizabeth1  by  his  gallery  of  pictures,  and  with 
the  reformers  of  the  sixteenth  century  by  his  portrait 
of  the  good  parson. 

Affinity  merely.  He  advanced  a  few  steps  beyond 
the  threshold  of  his  art,  but  he  paused  at  the  end  of  the 
vestibule.  He  half  opens  the  great  door  of  the  temple, 
but  does  not  take  his  seat  there ;  at  most,  he  sat  down  in 
it  only  at  intervals.  In  Arcite  and  Palamon,  in  Troilus 
and  Cressida,  he  sketches  sentiments,  but  does  not  create 
characters ;  he  easily  and  naturally  traces  the  winding 
course  of  events  and  conversations,  but  does  not  mark  the 
precise  outline  of  a  striking  figure.  If  occasionally,  as  in 
the  description  of  the  temple  of  Mars,  after  the  Thebaid 
of  Statius,  feeling  at  his  back  the  glowing  breeze  of 
poetry,  he  draws  out  his  feet,  clogged  with  the  mud  of 
the  middle-age,  and  at  a  bound  stands  upon  the  poetic 
plain  on  which  Statius  imitated  Virgil  and  equalled 
Lucan,  he,  at  other  times,  again  falls  back  into  the 
childish  gossip  of  the  trouveres,  or  the  dull  gabble  of 

1  Tennyson,  in  his  Dream  of  Fair  Women,  sings  : 

"  Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts,  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
"With  sounds  that  echo  still."— TB. 


CHAP.  nr.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  211 

learned  clerks — to  "  Dan  Fhebus  or  Apollo-Delphicus." 
Elsewhere,  a  commonplace  remark  on  art  intrudes  in 
the  midst  of  an  impassioned  description.  He  uses  three 
thousand  verses  to  conduct  Troilus  to  his  first  interview. 
He  is  like  a  precocious  and  poetical  child,  who  mingles 
in  his  love-dreams  quotations  from  his  grammar  and 
recollections  of  his  alphabet.1  Even  in  the  Canterbury 
Tales  he  repeats  himself,  unfolds  artless  developments, 
forgets  to  concentrate  his  passion  or  his  idea.  He 
begins  a  jest,  and  scarcely  ends  it.  He  dilutes  a  bright 
colouring  in  a  monotonous  stanza.  His  voice  is  like 
that  of  a  boy  breaking  into  manhood.  At  first  a  manly 
and  firm  accent  is  maintained,  then  a  shrill  sweet  sound 
shows  that  his  growth  is  not  finished,  and  that  his 
strength  is  subject  to  weakness.  Chaucer  sets  out  as 
if  to  quit  the  middle-age ;  but  in  the  end  he  is  there 
still.  To-day  he  composes  the  Canterbury  Tales ;  yester- 
day he  was  translating  the  Roman  de  la  Rose.  To-day 
he  is  studying  the  complicated  machinery  of  the  heart, 
discovering  the  issues  of  primitive  education  or  of  the 
ruling  disposition,  and  creating  the  comedy  of  manners  ; 
to-morrow,  he  will  have  no  pleasure  but  in  curious 
events,  smooth  allegories,  amorous  discussions,  imitated 
from  the  French,  or  learned  moralities  from  the  ancients. 
Alternately  he  is  an  observer  and  a  trouvere ;  instead 
of  the  step  he  ought  to  have  advanced,  he  has  but  made 
a  half-step. 

Who  has  prevented  him,  and  the  others  who  sur- 

1  Speaking  of  Cressida,  iv.,  book  i.  p.  236,  he  says  : 
"  Right  as  our  first  letter  is  now  an  a, 
In  beautie  first  so  stood  she  makeles, 
Her  goodly  looking  gladed  all  the  prees, 
Nas  never  seene  thing  to  be  praised  so  derre 
Nor  under  cloude  blacke  so  bright  a  sterre. ' 


212  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

round  him  ?  We  meet  with  the  obstacle  in  the  tales 
he  has  translated  of  Meliheus,  of  the  Parson,  in  his 
Testament  of  Love ;  in  short,  so  long  as  he  writes  verse, 
he  is  at  his  ease ;  as  soon  as  he  takes  to  prose,  a  sort 
of  chain  winds  around  his  feet  and  stops  him.  His 
imagination  is-  free,  and  his  reasoning  a  slave.  The 
rigid  scholastic  divisions,  the  mechanical  manner  of 
arguing  and  replying,  the  ergo,  the  Latin  quotations, 
the  authority  of  Aristotle  and  the  Fathers,  come  and 
weigh  down  his  budding  thought.  His  native  invention 
disappears  under  the  discipline  imposed.  The  servitude 
is  so  heavy,  that  even  in  the  work  of  one  of  his  con- 
temporaries, the  Testament  of  Love,  which,  for  a  long 
time,  was  believed  to  be  written  by  Chaucer,  amid  the 
most  touching  plaints  and  the  most  smarting  pains,  the 
beautiful  ideal  lady,  the  heavenly  mediator  who  appears 
in  a  vision,  Love,  sets  her  theses,  establishes  that  the 
cause  of  a  cause  is  the  cause  of  the  thing  caused,  and 
reasons  as  pedantically  as  they  would  at  Oxford.  In 
what  can  talent,  even  feeling,  end,  when  it  is  kept  down 
by  such  shackles  ?  What  succession  of  original  truths 
and  new  doctrines  could  be  found  and  proved,  when  in 
a  moral  tale,  like  that  of  Melibeus  and  his  wife  Prudence, 
it  was  thought  necessary  to  establish  a  formal  contro- 
versy, to  quote  Seneca  and  Job,  to  forbid  tears,  to  bring 
forward  the  weeping  Christ  to  authorise  tears,  to  enumer- 
ate every  proof,  to  call  in  Solomon,  Cassiodorus,  and 
Cato ;  in  short,  to  write  a  book  for  schools  ?  The  public 
cares  only  for  pleasant  and  lively  thoughts ;  not  serious 
and  general  ideas;  these  latter  are  for  a  special  class 
only.  As  soon  as  Chaucer  gets  into  a  reflective  mood, 
straightway  Saint  Thomas,  Peter  Lombard,  the  manual 
of  sins,  the  treatise  on  definition  and  syllogism,  the 


CHAP.  m.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  213 

army  of  the  ancients  and  of  the  Fathers,  descend  from 
their  glory,  enter  his  brain,  speak  in  his  stead ;  and  the 
trouvere's  pleasant  voice  becomes  the  dogmatic  and 
sleep-inspiring  voice  of  a  doctor.  In  love  and  satire 
he  has  experience,  and  he  invents ;  in  what  regards 
morality  and  philosophy  he  has  learning,  and  copies. 
For  an  instant,  by  a  solitary  leap,  he  entered  upon  the 
close  observation  and  the  genuine  study  of  man  ;  he 
could  not  keep  his  ground,  he  did  not  take  his  seat,  he 
took  a  poetic  excursion ;  and  no  one  followed  him.  The 
level  of  the  century  is  lower ;  he  is  on  it  himself  for 
the  most  part.  He  is  in  the  company  of  narrators  like 
Froissart,  of  elegant  speakers  like  Charles  of  Orleans, 
of  gossipy  and  barren  verse-writers  like  Gower,  Lydgate, 
and  Occleve.  There  is  no  fruit,  but  frail  and  fleeting 
blossom,  many  useless  branches,  still  more  dying  or 
dead  branches;  such  is  this  literature.  And  why? 
Because  it  had  no  longer  a  root ;  after  three  centuries 
of  effort,  a  heavy  instrument  cut  it  underground.  Thia 
instrument  was  the  Scholastic  Philosophy. 

VI. 

Beneath  every  literature  there  is  a  philosophy. 
Beneath  every  work  of  art  is  an  idea  of  nature  and  of 
life;  this  idea  leads  the  poet.  Whether  the  author 
knows  it  or  not,  he  writes  in  order  to  exhibit  it ;  and 
the  characters  which  he  fashions,  like  the  events  which 
he  arranges,  only  serve  to  bring  to  light  the  dim  creative 
conception  which  raises  and  combines  them.  Under- 
lying Homer  appears  the  noble  life  of  heroic  paganism 
and  of  happy  Greece.  Underlying  Dante,  the  sad  and 
violent  life  of  fanatical  Catholicism  and  of  the  much- 
hating  Italians.  From  either  we  might  draw  a  theory 


214  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  * 

of  man  and  of  the  beautiful.  It  is  so  with  others ;  and 
this  is  how,  according  to  the  variations,  the  birth, 
blossom,  decline,  or  sluggishness  of  the  master-idea, 
literature  varies,  is  born,  flourishes,  degenerates,  comes 
to  an  end.  Whoever  plants  the  one,  plants  the  other : 
whoever  undermines  the  one,  undermines  the  other. 
Place  in  all  the  minds  of  any  age  a  new  grand  idea  of 
nature  and  life,  so  that  they  feel  and  produce  it  with 
their  whole  heart  and  strength,  and  you  will  see  them, 
seized  with  the  craving  to  express  it,  invent  forms  of 
art  and  groups  of  figures.  Take  away  from  these  minds 
every  grand  new  idea  of  nature  and  life,  and  you  will 
see  them,  deprived  of  the  craving  to  express  all-important 
thoughts,  copy,  sink  into  silence,  or  "rave. 

What  has  become  of  these  all-important  thoughts  ? 
What  labour  worked  them  out  ?  What  studies  nourished 
them?  The  labourers  did  not  lack  zeal.  In  the 
twelfth  century  the  energy  of  their  minds  was  admirable. 
At  Oxford  there  were  thirty  thousand  scholars.  No 
building  in  Paris  could  contain  the  crowd  of  Abelard's 
disciples ;  when  he  retired  to  solitude,  they  accompanied 
him  in  such  a  multitude,  that  the  desert  became  a  town. 
No  difficulty  repulsed  them.  There  is  a  story  of  a 
young  boy,  who,  though  beaten  by  his  master,  was 
wholly  bent  on  remaining  with  him,  that  he  might  still 
learn.  When  the  terrible  encyclopedia  of  Aristotle  was 
introduced,  though  disfigured  and  unintelligible,  it  was 
devoured.  The  only  question  presented  to  them,  that 
of  universals,  so  abstract  and  dry,  so  embarrassed  by 
Arabic  obscurities  and  Greek  subtilties,  during  cen- 
turies, was  seized  upon  eagerly.  Heavy  and  awkward 
as  was  the  instrument  supplied  to  them,  I  mean  syllo- 
gism, they  made  themselves  masters  of  it,  rendered  it 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  215 

still  more  heavy,  plunged  it  into  every  object  and  in 
every  direction.  They  constructed  monstrous  books, 
in  great  numbers,  cathedrals  of  syllogism,  of  unheard  of 
architecture,  of  prodigious  finish,  heightened  in  effect  by 
intensity  of  intellectual  power,  which  the  whole  sum  of 
human  labour  has  only  twice  been  able  to  match.1 
These  young  and  valiant  minds  thought  they  had  found 
the  temple  of  truth ;  they  rushed  at  it  headlong,  in 
legions,  breaking  in  the  doors,  clambering  over  the 
walls,  leaping  into  the  interior,  and  so  found  themselves 
at  the  bottom  of  a  moat.  Three  centuries  of  labour  at 
the  bottom  of  this  black  moat  added  not  one  idea  to  the 
human  mind. 

For  consider  the  questions  which  they  treat  of. 
They  seem  to  be  marching,  but  are  merely  marking 
time.  People  would  say,  to  see  them  moil  and  toil, 
that  they  will  educe  from  heart  and  brain  some  great 
original  creed,  and  yet  all  belief  was  imposed  upon  them 
from  the  outset.  The  system  was  made ;  they  could  only 
arrange  and  comment  upon  it.  The  conception  comes 
not  from  them,  but  from  Constantinople.  Infinitely 
complicated  and  subtle  as  it  is,  the  supreme  work  of 
Oriental  mysticism  and  Greek  metaphysics,  so  dispro- 
portioned  to  their  young  understanding,  they  exhaust 
themselves  to  reproduce  it,  and  moreover  burden  their 
unpractised  hands  with  the  weight  of  a  logical  instru- 
ment which  Aristotle  created  for  theory  and  not  for 
practice,  and  which  ought  to  have  remained  in  a 

1  Under  Proclus  and  under  Hegel.  Duns  Scotus,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
one,  died,  leaving  beside  his  sermons  and  commentaries,  twelve  folio 
volumes,  in  a  small  close  handwriting,  in  a  style  like  Hegel's,  on  the 
same  subject  as  Proclus  treats  of.  Similarly  with  Saint  Thomas  and 
the  whole  train  of  schoolmen.  No  idea  can  be  formed  of  such  a  labour 
before  handling  the  books  themselves. 


216  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i 

cabinet  of  philosophical  curiosities,  without  being  ever 
carried  into  the  field  of  action.  "  Whether  the  divine 
essence  engendered  the  Son,  or  was  engendered  by  the 
Father ;  why  the  three  persons  together  are  not  greater 
than  one  alone ;  attributes  determine  persons,  not 
substance,  that  is,  nature;  how  properties  can  exist  in 
the  nature  of  God,  and  not  determine  it;  if  created 
spirits  are  local  and  can  be  circumscribed ;  if  God  can 
know  more  things  than  He  is  aware  of;"1 — these  are 
the  ideas  which  they  moot :  what .  truth  could  issue 
thence  ?  From  hand  to  hand  the  chimera  grows,  and 
spreads  wider  its  gloomy  wings.  "  Can  God  cause  that, 
the  place  and  body  being  retained,  the  body  shall  have 
no  position,  that  is,  existence  in  place  ? — Whether  the 
impossibility  of  being  engendered  is  a  constituent 
property  of  the  First  Person  of  the  Trinity — Whether 
identity,  similitude,  and  equality  are  real  relations  in 
God." 2  Duns  Scotus  distinguishes  three  kinds  of 
matter :  matter  which  is  firstly  first,  secondly  first, 
thirdly  first.  According  to  him,  we  must  clear  this 
triple  hedge  of  thorny  abstractions  in  order  to  under- 
stand the  production  of  a  sphere  of  brass.  Under  such 
a  regimen,  imbecility  soon  makes  its  appearance.  Saint 
Thomas  himself  considers,  "  whether  the  body  of  Christ 
arose  with  its  wounds, — whether  this  body  moves  with 
the  motion  of  the  host  and  the  chalice  in  consecration, 
— whether  at  the  first  instant  of  conception  Christ  had 
the  use  of  free  judgment, — whether  Christ  was  slain 
by  Himself  or  by  another?"  Do  you  think  you  are 
at  the  limits  of  human  folly  ?  Listen.  He  considers 
*  whether  the  dove  in  which  the  Holy  Spirit  appeared 

1  Peter  Lombard,  Book  of  Sentences.     It  was  the  classic  of  the 
middle-age.  2  Duns  Scotus,  ed.  1639. 


OHAP.  m.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  217 

was  a  real  animal, — whether  a  glorified  body  can  occupy 
one  and  the  same  place  at  the  same  time  as  another 
glorified  body, — whether  in  the  state  of  innocence  all 
children  were  masculine  ? "  I  pass  over  others  as  to 
the  digestion  of  Christ,  and  some  still  more  untranslat- 
able.1 This  is  the  point  reached  by  the  most  esteemed 
doctor,  the  most  judicious  mind,  the  Bossuet  of  the 
middle-age.  Even  in  this  ring  of  inanities  the  answers  are 
laid  down.  Roscellinus  and  Abelard  were  excommuni- 
cated, exiled,  imprisoned,  because  they  swerved  from  it. 
There  is  a  complete  minute  dogma  which  closes  all 
issues ;  there  is  no  means  of  escaping ;  after  a  hundred 
wriggles  and  a  hundred  efforts,  you  must  come  and 
tumble  into  a  formula.  If  by  mysticism  you  try 
to  fly  over  their  heads,  if  by  experience  you  en- 
deavour to  creep  beneath,  powerful  talons  await  you  at 
your  exit.  The  wise  man  passes  for  a  magician,  the 
enlightened  man  for  a  heretic.  The  Waldenses,  the 
Catharists,  the  disciples  of  John  of  Parma,  were  burned ; 
Eoger  Bacon  died  only  just  in  time,  otherwise  he  might 
have  been  burned.  Under  this  constraint  men  ceased 
to  think ;  for  he  who  speaks  of  thought,  speaks  of  an 
effort  at  invention,  an  individual  creation,  an  energetic 
action.  They  recite  a  lesson,  or  sing  a  catechism ;  even 
in  paradise,  even  in  ecstasy  and  the  divinest  raptures  of 
love,  Dante  thinks  himself  bound  to  show  an  exact 
memory  and  a  scholastic  orthodoxy.  How  then  with 

1  Utrum  angelus  diligat  se  ipsum.  dilectione  natural!  vel  electira  ? 
Utrum  iu  statu  innocentiae  fuerit  generatio  per  coitum  ?  Utrum  omnea 
fuissent  nati  in  sexu  masculine  ?  Utrum  cognitio  angeli  posset  dici 
matutina  et  vespertina  ?  Utrum  martyribus  aureola  debeatur  ?  Utrum 
virgo  Maria  fuerit  virgo  in  concipiendo  ?  Utrum  remanserit  virgo  post 
partum  ?  The  reader  may  look  out  in  the  text  the  reply  to  these  last 
two  questions.  (S.  Thomas,  Summa  Tkeologica,  ed.  1677.) 


218  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

the  rest?  Some,  like  Eaymond  Lully,  set  about  in- 
venting an  instrument  of  reasoning  to  serve  in  place  of 
the  understanding.  About  the  fourteenth  century, 
under  the  blows  of  Occam,  this  verbal  science  began  to 
totter ;  they  saw  that  its  entities  were  only  words ;  it 
was  discredited.  In  1 3  6  7,  at  Oxford,  of  thirty  thousand 
students,  there  remained  six  thousand;1  they  still  set 
their  "  Barbara  and  Felapton,"  but  only  in  the  way  of 
routine.  Each  one  in  turn  mechanically  traversed  the 
petty  region  of  threadbare  cavils,  scratched  himself  in 
the  briars  of  quibbles,  and  burdened  himself  with  his 
bundle  of  texts;  nothing  more.  The  vast  body  of 
science  which  was  to  have  formed  and  vivified  the  whole 
thought  of  man,  was  reduced  to  a  text-book. 

So,  little  by  little,  the  conception  which  fertilised  and 
ruled  all  others,  dried  up;  the  deep  spring,  whence 
flowed  all  poetic  streams,  was  found  empty;  science 
furnished  nothing  more  to  the  world.  What  further 
works  could  the  world  produce  ?  As  Spain,  later  on, 
renewing  the  middle-age,  after  having  shone  splendidly 
and  foolishly  by  her  chivalry  and  devotion,  by  Lope  de 
Vega  and  Calderon,  Loyola  and  St.  Theresa,  became 
enervated  through  the  Inquisition  and  through  casuistry, 
and  ended  by  sinking  into  a  brutish  silence;  so  the 
middle-age,  outstripping  Spain,  after  displaying  the 
senseless  heroism  of  the  crusades,  and  the  poetical 
ecstasy  of  the  cloister,  after  producing  chivalry  and  saint- 
ship,  Francis  of  Assisi,  St.  Louis,  and  Dante,  languished 
under  the  Inquisition  and  the  scholastic  learning,  and 
became  extinguished  in  idle  raving  and  inanity. 

1  The  Rev.  Henry  Anstey,  in  his  Introduction  to  Munimenta  Aca- 
demica,  Lond.  1868,  says  that  "the  statement  of  Richard  of  Armagh 
that  there  were  in  the  thirteenth  century  30,000  scholars  at  Oxford  is 
almost  incredible."  P.  xlviiL— TB. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  219 

Must  we  quote  all  these  good  people  who  speak 
without  having  anything  to  say  ?  You  may  find  them 
in  Warton ; l  dozens  of  translators,  importing  the 
poverties  of  French  literature,  and  imitating  imitations  ; 
rhyming  chroniclers,  most  commonplace  of  men,  whom 
we  only  read  because  we  must  accept  history  from 
every  quarter,  even  from  imbeciles;  spinners  and 
spinsters  of  didactic  poems,  who  pile  up  verses  on  the 
training  of  falcons,  on  heraldry,  on  chemistry;  editors 
of  moralities,  who  invent  the  same  dream  over  again, 
for  the  hundredth  time,  and  get  themselves  taught 
universal  history  by  the  goddess  Sapience.  Like  the 
writers  of  the  Latin  decadence,  these  folk  only  think  of 
copying,  compiling,  abridging,  constructing  in  text-books, 
in  rhymed  memoranda,  the  encyclopedia  of  their  times. 

Listen  to  the  most  illustrious,  the  grave  Gower — 
"  morall  Gower,"  as  he  was  called  ? 2  Doubtless  here 
and  there  he  contains  a  remnant  of  brilliancy  and  grace. 
He  is  like  an  old  secretary  of  a  Court  of  Love,  Andre" 
le  Chapelain  or  any  other,  who  would  pass  the  day  in 
solemnly  registering  the  sentences  of  ladies,  and  in  the 
evening,  partly  asleep  on  his  desk,  would  see  in  a  half- 
dream  their  sweet  smile  and  their  beautiful  eyes.3  The 
ingenious  but  exhausted  vein  of  Charles  of  Orleans 
still  flows  in  his  French  ballads.  He  has  the  same 
fondling  delicacy,  almost  a  little  affected.  The  poor 
little  poetic  spring  flows  yet  in  thin  transparent  stream- 
lets over  the  smooth  pebbles,  and  murmurs  with  a 
babble,  pretty,  but  so  low  that  at  times  you  cannot 
hear  it.  But  dull  is  the  rest !  His  great  poem,  Gon- 

1  Hist,  of  English  Poetry,  vol.  ii. 

•  Contemporary  with  Chaucer.     The  Confessio  Amantis  dates  from  1393. 
3  History  of  Eosiphele.     Ballads. 


220  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  i. 

fessio  Amantis,  is  a  dialogue  between  a  lover  and  his 
confessor,  imitated  chiefly  from  Jean  de  Meung,  having 
for  object,  like  the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  to  explain  and 
classify  the  impediments  of  love.  The  superannuated 
theme  is  always  reappearing,  covered  by  a  crude  erudi- 
tion. You  will  find  here  an  exposition  of  hermetic 
science,  lectures  on  the  philosophy  of  Aristotle,  a 
treatise  on  politics,  a  litany  of  ancient  and  modern 
legends  gleaned  from  the  compilers,  marred  in  the 
passage  by  the  pedantry  of  the  schools  and  the  igno- 
rance of  the  age.  It  is  a  cartload  of  scholastic  rubbish ; 
the  sewer  tumbles  upon  this  feeble  spirit,  which  of 
itself  was  flowing  clearly,  but  now,  obstructed  by  tiles, 
bricks,  plaster,  ruins  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe, 
drags  on  darkened  and  sluggish.  Gower,  one  of  the 
most  learned  of  his  time,1  supposed  that  Latin  was 
invented  by  the  old  prophetess  Carmentis;  that  the 
grammarians,  Aristarchus,  Donatus,  and  Didymus,  regu- 
lated its  syntax,  pronunciation,  and  prosody ;  that  it 
was  adorned  by  Cicero  with  the  flowers  of  eloquence 
and  rhetoric;  then  enriched  by  translations  from  the 
Arabic,  Chaldaean,  and  Greek;  and  that  at  last,  after 
much  labour  of  celebrated  writers,  it  attained  its  final 
perfection  in  Ovid,  the  poet  of  love.  Elsewhere  he 
discovers  that  Ulysses  learned  rhetoric  from  Cicero, 
magic  from  Zoroaster,  astronomy  from  Ptolemy,  and 
philosophy  from  Plato.  And  what  a  style  !  so  long,  so 
dull,2  so  drawn  out  by  repetitions,  the  most  minute 
details,  garnished  with  references  to  his  text,  like  a  man 
who,  with  his  eyes  glued  to  his  Aristotle  and  his  Ovid, 

1  Warton,  ii.  240. 

a  See,  for  instance,  his  description  of  the  sun's  crown,  the  most 
poetical  passage  in  book  vii 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  221 

a  slave  of  his  musty  parchments,  can  do  nothing  but 
copy  and  string  his  rhymes  together.  Schoolboys  even 
in  old  age,  they  seem  to  believe  that  every  truth,  all 
wit,  is  in  their  great  wood-bound  books ;  that  they 
have  no  need  to  find  out  and  invent  for  themselves; 
that  their  whole  business  is  to  repeat ;  that  this  is,  in 
fact,  man's  business.  The  scholastic  system  had  en- 
throned the  dead  letter,  and  peopled  the  world  with 
dead  understandings. 

After  Gower  come  Occleve  and  Lydgate.1  "My 
father  Chaucer  would  willingly  have  taught  me,"  says 
Occleve,  "  but  I  was  dull,  and  learned  little  or  nothing." 
He  paraphrased  in  verse  a  treatise  of  Egidius,  on  govern- 
ment ;  these  are  moralities.  There  are  others,  on  com- 
passion, after  Augustine,  and  on  the  art  of  dying ;  then 
love-tales ;  a  letter  from  Cupid,  dated  from  his  court  in 
the  month  of  May.  Love  and  moralities,2  that  is, 
abstractions  and  affectation,  were  the  taste  of  the  time ; 
and  so,  in  the  time  of  Lebrun,  of  Esmdnard,  at  the  close 
of  contemporaneous  French  literature,3  they  produced 
collections  of  didactic  poems,  and  odes  to  Chloris.  As 
for  the  monk  Lydgate,  he  had  some  talent,  some  imagina- 
tion, especially  in  high-toned  descriptions :  it  was  the 
last  flicker  of  a  dying  literature ;  gold  received  a  golden 
coating,  precious  stones  were  placed  upon  diamonds, 
ornaments  multiplied  and  made  fantastic ;  as  in  their 
dress  and  buildings,  so  in  their  style.4  Look  at  the 
costumes  of  Henry  IV.  and  Henry  V.,  monstrous  heart- 
shaped  or  horn-shaped  head-dresses,  long  sleeves  covered 

1  1420,  1430. 

J  This  is  the  title  Froissart  (1397)  gave  to  his  collection  when  pre- 
senting it  to  Richard  II.  8  Lebrun,  1729-1807;  Esmenard,  1770-1812. 

4  Lydgate,  The  Destruction  of  Troy — description  of  Hector's  chapeL 
Especially  read  the  Pageants  or  Solemn  Entries. 


222  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

with  ridiculous  designs,  the  plumes,  and  again  the 
oratories,  armorial  tombs,  little  gaudy  chapels,  like  con- 
spicuous flowers  under  the  naves  of  the  Gothic  perpen- 
dicular. When  we  can  no  more  speak  to  the  soul,  we 
try  to  speak  to  the  eyes.  This  is  what  Lydgate  does, 
nothing  more.  Pageants  or  shows  are  required  of  him, 
"  disguisings"  for  the  Company  of  goldsmiths ;  a  mask 
before  the  king,  a  May-entertainment  for  the  sheriffs  of 
London,  a  drama  of  the  creation  for  the  festival  of  Corpus 
Christi,  a  masquerade,  a  Christmas  show ;  he  gives  the 
plan  and  furnishes  the  verses.  In  this  matter  he  never 
runs  dry ;  two  hundred  and  fifty-one  poems  are  attri- 
buted to  him.  Poetry  thus  conceived  becomes  a 
manufacture ;  it  is  composed  by  the  yard.  Such  was 
the  judgment  of  the  Abbot  of  St.  Albans,  who,  having 
got  him  to  translate  a  legend  in  verse,  pays  a  hundred 
shillings  for  the  whole,  verse,  writing,  and  illuminations, 
placing  the  three  works  on  a  level.  In  fact,  no  more 
thought  was  required  for  the  one  than  for  the  others. 
His  three  great  works,  The  Fall  of  Princes,  The  Destruction 
of  Troy,  and  The  Siege  of  Thebes,  are  only  translations  or 
paraphrases,  verbose,  erudite,  descriptive,  a  kind  of  chival- 
rous processions,  coloured  for  the  twentieth  time,  in  the 
same  manner,  on  the  same  vellum.  The  only  point 
which  rises  above  the  average,  at  least  in  the  first  poem, 
is  the  idea  of  Fortune,1  and  the  violent  vicissitudes  of 
human  life.  If  there  was  a  philosophy  at  this  time, 
this  was  it.  They  willingly  narrated  horrible  and  tragic 
histories;  gather  them  from  antiquity  down  to  their 
own  day ;  they  were  far  from  the  trusting  and  passionate 
piety  which  felt  the  hand  of  God  in  the  government  of 

1  See  the  Vision  of  Fortune,  a  gigantic  figure.    In  this  painting  he 
shows  both  feeling  and  talent. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  223 

the  world;  they  saw  that  the  world  went  blundering 
here  and  there  like  a  drunken  man.  A  sad  and  gloomy 
world,  amused  by  eternal  pleasures,  oppressed  with  a 
dull  misery,  which  suffered  and  feared  without  consola- 
tion or  hope,  isolated  between  the  ancient  spirit  in 
which  it  had  no  living  hope,  and  the  modern  spirit 
whose  active  science  it  ignored.  Fortune,  like  a  black 
smoke,  hovers  over  all,  and  shuts  out  the  sight  of  heaven. 
They  picture  it  as  follows  : — 

"  Her  face  semyng  cruel  arid  terrible 
And  by  disdayne  menacing  of  loke,  .  .  . 
An  hundred  handes  she  had,  of  eche  part  .  .  . 
Some  of  her  handes  lyft  up  men  alofte, 
To  hye  estate  of  worldlye  dignite  ; 
Another  hande  griped  ful  unsofte, 
Which  cast  another  in  grete  adversite." l 

They  look  upon  the  great  unhappy  ones,  a  captive  king, 
a  dethroned  queen,  assassinated  princes,  noble  cities 
destroyed,2  lamentable  spectacles  as  exhibited  in  Ger- 
many and  France,  and  of  which  there  will  be  plenty  in 
England ;  and  they  can  only  regard  them  with  a  harsh 
resignation.  Lydgate  ends  by  reciting  a  commonplace 
of  mechanical  piety,  by  way  of  consolation.  The  reader 
makes  the  sign  of  the  cross,  yawns,  and  goes  away.  In 
fact,  poetry  and  religion  are  no  longer  capable  of  sug- 
gesting a  genuine  sentiment.  Authors  copy,  and  copy 
again.  Hawes3  copies  the  House  of  Fame  of  Chaucer, 
and  a  sort  of  allegorical  amorous  poem,  after  the  Roman 
de  la  Rose.  Barclay4  translates  the  Mirror  of  Good 

1  Lydgate,  Fall  of  Princes.     "Warton,  ii.  280. 

*  The  War  of  the  Hussites,  The  Hundred  Years'  War,  and  The  War 
of  the  Roses. 

3  About  1506.     The  Temple  of  Glass.     Passetyme  of  Pleasure. 
«  About  1500. 


224  THE  SOURCE.  BOOK  L 

Manners  and  the  Ship  of  Fools.  Continually  we  meet 
with  dull  abstractions,  used  up  and  barren ;  it  is  the 
scholastic  phase  of  poetry.  If  anywhere  there  is  an 
accent  of  greater  originality,  it  is  in  this  Ship  of  Fools, 
and  in  Lydgate's  Dance  of  Death,  bitter  buffooneries,  sad 
gaieties,  which,  in  the  hands  of  artists  and  poets,  were 
having  their  run  throughout  Europe.  They  mock  at 
each  other,  grotesquely  and  gloomily;  poor,  dull,  and 
vulgar  figures,  shut  up  in  a  ship,  or  made  to  dance 
on  their  tomb  to  the  sound  of  a  fiddle,  played  by  a 
grinning  skeleton.  At  the  end  of  all  this  mouldy  talk, 
and  amid  the  disgust  which  they  have  conceived  for 
each  other,  a  clown,  a  tavern  Triboulet,1  composer  of 
little  jeering  and  macaronic  verses,  Skelton2  makes  his 
appearance,  a  virulent  pamphleteer,  who,  jumbling 
together  French,  English,  Latin  phrases,  with  slang, 
and  fashionable  words,  invented  words,  intermingled 
with  short  rhymes,  fabricates  a  sort  of  literary  mud,  with 
which  he  bespatters  Wolsey  and  the  bishops.  Style, 
metre,  rhyme,  language,  art  of  every  kind,  is  at  an  end ; 
beneath  the  vain  parade  of  official  style  there  is  only  a 
heap  of  rubbish.  Yet,  as  he  says, 

"  Though  my  rhyme  be  ragged, 
Tattered  and  gagged, 
Rudely  rain-beaten, 
Rusty,  moth-eaten, 
Yf  ye  take  welle  therewithe, 
It  hath  in  it  some  pithe." 

It  is  full  of  political  animus,  sensual  liveliness,  English 

1  The  court  fool  in  Victor  Hugo's  drama  of  Le  Eoi  s'amuse. — TR. 

*  Died  1529  ;  Poet-Laureate  1489.  His  Bouge  of  Court,  his  Crown 
of  Laurel,  his  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  the  Ecvrl  of  Northumberland,  are 
well  written,  and  belong  to  official  poetry. 


CHAP.  in.  THE  NEW  TONGUE.  225 

and  popular  instincts ;  it  lives.  It  is  a  coarse  life,  still 
elementary,  swarming  with  ignoble  vermin,  like  that 
which  appears  in  a  great  decomposing  body.  It  is  life, 
nevertheless,  with  its  two  great  features  which  it  is 
destined  to  display:  the  hatred  of  the  ecclesiastical 
hierarchy,  which  is  the  Eeformation ;  the  return  to  the 
senses  and  to  natural  life,  which  is  the  Renaissance. 


VOL.  L 


BOOK  EL 
THE   RENAISSANCE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

2TfjE  Pagan  ftcnaissancr. 


§  1.  MANNERS  OF  THE  TIME. 

I. 

FOR  seventeen  centuries  a  deep  and  sad  thought  had 
weighed  upon  the  spirit  of  man,  first  to  overwhelm  it, 
then  to  exalt  and  to  weaken  it,  never  loosing  its  hold 
throughout  this  long  space  of  time.  It  was  the  idea  of 
the  weakness  and  decay  of  the  human  race.  Greek  cor- 
ruption, Roman  oppression,  and  the  dissolution  of  the 
ancient  world,  had  given  rise  to  it  ;  it,  in  its  turn,  had 
produced  a  stoical  resignation,  an  epicurean  indifference, 
Alexandrian  mysticism,  and  the  Christian  hope  in  the 
kingdom  of  God.  "  The  world  is  evil  and  lost,  let  us 
escape  by  insensibility,  amazement,  ecstasy."  Thus 
spoke  the  philosophers  ;  and  religion,  coming  after, 
announced  that  the  end  was  near  :  "  Prepare,  for  the 
kingdom  of  God  is  at  hand."  For  a  thousand  years 
universal  ruin  incessantly  drove  still  deeper  into  their 
hearts  this  gloomy  thought  ;  and  when  man  in  the 


228  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

feudal  state  raised  himself,  by  sheer  force  of  courage  and 
muscles,  from  the  depths  of  final  imbecility  and  general 
misery,  he  discovered  his  thought  and  his  work  fettered 
by  the  crushing  idea,  which,  forbidding  a  life  of  nature 
and  worldly  hopes,  erected  into  ideals  the  obedience  of 
the  monk  and  the  dreams  of  fanatics. 

It  grew  ever  worse  and  worse.  For  the  natural  result 
of  such  a  conception,  as  of  the  miseries  which  engender  it, 
and  the  discouragement  which  it  gives  rise  to,  is  to  do 
away  with  personal  action,  and  to  replace  originality  by 
submission.  From  the  fourth  century,  gradually  the 
dead  letter  was  substituted  for  the  living  faith.  Chris- 
tians resigned  themselves  into  the  hands  of  the  clergy, 
they  into  the  hands  of  the  Pope.  Christian  opinions 
were  subordinated  to  theologians,  and  theologians  to  the 
Fathers.  Christian  faith  was  reduced  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  works,  and  works  to  the  accomplishment  of 
ceremonies.  Religion,  fluid  during  the  first  centuries, 
was  now  congealed  into  a  hard  crystal,  and  the  coarse 
contact  of  the  barbarians  had  deposited  upon  its  surface 
a  layer  of  idolatry  :  theocracy  and  the  Inquisition,  the 
monopoly  of  the  clergy  and  the  prohibition  of  the 
Scriptures,  the  worship  of  relics  and  the  sale  of  indul- 
gences began  to  appear.  In  place  of  Christianity,  the 
church  ;  in  place  of  a  free  creed,  enforced  orthodoxy  ;  in 
place  of  moral  fervour,  fixed  religious  practices ;  in  place 
of  the  heart  and  stirring  thought,  outward  and  mechanical 
discipline:  such  are  the  characteristics  of  the  middle  ages. 
Under  this  constraint  thinking  society  had  ceased  to 
think  ;  philosophy  was  turned  into  a  text-book,  and 
poetry  into  dotage ;  and  mankind,  slothful  and  crouch- 
ing, delivering  up  their  conscience  and  their  conduct 
into  the  hands  of  their  priests,  seemed  but  as  puppets. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  229 

fit  only  for  reciting  a  catechism  and  mumbling  over 
beads.1 

At  last  invention  makes  another  start ;  and  it  makes 
it  by  the  efforts  of  the  lay  society,  which  rejected 
theocracy,  kept  the  State  free,  and  which  presently  dis- 
covered, or  re-discovered,  one  after  another,  the  indus- 
tries, sciences,  and  arts.  All  was  renewed  ;  America  and 
the  Indies  were  added  to  the  map  of  the  world  ;  the 
shape  of  the  earth  was  ascertained,  the  system  of  the 
universe  propounded,  modern  philology  was  inaugurated, 
the  experimental  sciences  set  on  foot,  art  and  literature 
shot  forth  like  a  harvest,  religion  was  transformed  : 
there  was  no  province  of  human  intelligence  and  action 
which  was  not  refreshed  and  fertilised  by  this  universal 
effort.  It  was  so  great,  that  it  passed  from  the  innova- 
tors to  the  laggards,  and  reformed  Catholicism  in  the 
face  of  Protestantism  which  it  formed.  It  seems  as 
though  men  had  suddenly  opened  their  eyes  and  seen. 
In  fact,  they  attain  a  new  and  superior  kind  of  intelli- 
gence. It  is  the  proper  feature  of  this  age,  that  men 
no  longer  make  themselves  masters  of  objects  by  bits, 
or  isolated,  or  through  scholastic  or  mechanical  classi- 
fications, but  as  a  whole,  in  general  and  complete  views, 
with  the  eager  grasp  of  a  sympathetic  spirit,  which  being 
placed  before  a  vast  object,  penetrates  it  in  all  its  parts, 
tries  it  in  all  its  relations,  appropriates  and  assimilates 
it,  impresses  upon  itself  its  living  and  potent  image,  so 
life-like  and  so  powerful,  that  it  is  fain  to  translate  it 
into  externals  through  a  work  of  art  or  an  action.  An 
extraordinary  warmth  of  soul,  a  superabundant  and 

1  See,  at  Bruges,  the  pictures  of  Hemling  (fifteenth  century).  No 
paintings  enable  us  to  understand  so  well  the  ecclesiastical  piety  of  the 
nr'ddle-age,  which  was  altogether  like  that  of  the  Buddhists. 


230  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  11. 

splendid  imagination,  reveries,  visions,  artists,  believers, 
founders,  creators, — that  is  what  such  a  form  of  intellect 
produces ;  for  to  create  we  must  have,  as  had  Luther 
and  Loyola,  Michel  Angelo  and  Shakspeare,  an  idea,  not 
abstract,  partial,  and  dry,  but  well  defined,  finished, 
sensible, — a  true  creation,  which  acts  inwardly,  and 
struggles  to  appear  to  the  light.  This  was  Europe's 
grand  age,  and  the  most  notable  epoch  of  human  growth. 
To  this  day  we  live  from  its  sap,  we  only  carry  on  its 
pressure  and  efforts. 

II. 

When  human  power  is  manifested  so  clearly  and  in 
such  great  works,  it  is  no  wonder  if  the  ideal  changes, 
and  the  old  pagan  idea  reappears.  It  recurs,  bringing 
with  it  the  worship  of  beauty  and  vigour,  first  in  Italy  ; 
for  this,  of  all  countries  in  Europe,  is  the  most  pagan, 
and  the  nearest  to  the  ancient  civilisation ;  thence  in 
France  and  Spain,  and  Flanders,1  and  even  in  Germany  ; 
and  finally  in  England.  How  is  it  propagated  ?  What 
revolution  of  manners  reunited  mankind  at  this  time, 
everywhere,  under  a  sentiment  which  they  had  forgotten 
for  fifteen  hundred  years  ?  Merely  that  their  condition 
had  improved,  and  they  felt  it.  The  idea  ever  expresses 
the  actual  situation,  and  the  creatures  of  the  imagination, 
like  the  conceptions  of  the  mind,  only  manifest  the  state 
of  society  and  the  degree  of  its  welfare  ;  there  is  a  fixed 
connection  between  what  man  admires  and  what  he  is. 
While  misery  overwhelms  him,  while  the  decadence  is 
visible,  and  hope  shut  out,  he  is  inclined  to  curse  his 
life  on  earth,  and  seek  consolation  in  another  sphere. 

1  Van  Orley,  Michel  Coxcie,  Franz  Floris,  the  de  Vos',  the  Sadelers, 
Crispin  de  Pass,  and  the  artists  of  Nuremberg. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  231 

As  soon  as  his  sufferings  are  alleviated,  his  power  made 
manifest,  his  prospects  brightened,  he  begins  once  more 
to  love  the  present  life,  to  be  self-confident,  to  love  and 
praise  energy,  genius,  all  the  effective  faculties  which 
labour  to  procure  him  happiness.  About  the  twentieth 
year  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  the  nobles  gave  up  shield  and 
two-handed  sword  for  the  rapier  ;l  a  little,  almost  im- 
perceptible fact,  yet  vast,  for  it  is  like  the  change  which 
sixty  years  ago,  made  us  give  up  the  sword  at  court, 
to  leave  us  with  our  arms  swinging  about  in  our  black 
coats.  In  fact,  it  was  the  close  of  feudal  life,  and  the 
beginning  of  court-life,  just  as  to-day  court-life  is  at  an 
end,  and  the  democratic  reign  has  begun.  With  the 
two-handed  swords,  heavy  coats  of  mail,  feudal  keeps, 
private  warfare,  permanent  disorder,  all  the  scourges  of 
the  middle-age  retired,  and  faded  into  the  past.  The 
English  had  done  with  the  Wars  of  the  Koses.  They 
no  longer  ran  the  risk  of  being  pillaged  to-morrow  for 
being  rich,  and  hung  the  next  day  for  being  traitors ; 
they  have  no  further  need  to  furbish  up  their  armour, 
make  alliances  with  powerful  nations,  lay  in  stores  for 
the  winter,  gather  together  men-at-arms,  scour  the 
country  to  plunder  and  hang  others.2  The  monarchy,  in 
England  as  throughout  Europe,  establishes  peace  in  the 
community,3  and  with  peace  appear  the  useful  arts. 
Domestic  comfort  follows  civil  security ;  and  man,  better 
furnished  in  his  home,  better  protected  in  his  hamlet, 

1  The  first  carriage  was  in  1564.  It  caused  much  astonishment. 
Some  said  that  it  was  "  a  great  sea-shell  brought  from  China  ; "  others, 
"that  it  was  a  temple  in  which  cannibals  worshipped  the  devil." 

8  For  a  picture  of  this  state  of  things,  see  Fenn's  Paston  Letters. 

*  Louis  XI.  in  France,  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  in  Spain,  Henry  VII. 
in  England.  In  Italy  the  feudal  regime  ended  earlier,  by  the  establish- 
ment of  republics  and  principalities. 


232  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

takes  pleasure  in  his  life  on  earth,  which  he  has  changed, 
and  means  to  change. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century1  the  im- 
petus was  given ;  commerce  and  the  woollen  trade  made 
a  sudden  advance,  and  such  an  enormous  one  that  corn- 
fields were  changed  into  pasture-lands,  "whereby  the 
inhabitants  of  the  said  town  (Manchester)  have  gotten  and 
come  into  riches  and  wealthy  livings,"2  so  that  in  1553, 
40,000  pieces  of  cloth  were  exported  in  English  ships. 
It  was  already  the  England  which  we  see  to  day,  a  land 
of  green  meadows,  intersected  by  hedgerows,  crowded 
with  cattle,  and  abounding  in  ships — a  manufacturing 
opulent  land,  with  a  people  of  beef-eating  toilers,  who 
enrich  it  while  they  enrich  themselves.  They  improved 
agriculture  to  such  an  extent,  that  in  half-a-century 
the  produce  of  an  acre  was  doubled. 8  They  grew  so 
rich,  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I. 
the  Commons  represented  three  times  the  wealth  of  the 
Upper  House.  The  ruin  of  Antwerp  by  the  Duke  of 
Parma4  sent  to  England  "  the  third  part  of  the  merchants 
and  manufacturers,  who  made  silk,  damask,  stockings, 
taffetas,  and  serges."  The  defeat  of  the  Armada  and 
the  decadence  of  Spain  opened  the  seas  to  English  mer- 
chants.6 The  toiling  hive,  who  would  dare,  attempt, 
explore,  act  in  unison,  and  always  with  profit,  waa 

1  1488,  Act  of  Parliament  on  Enclosures. 

'  A  Compendious  Examination,  1581,  by  William  StrafforcL  Act  of 
Parliament,  1541. 

8  Between  1377  and  1588  the  increase  was  from  two  and  a  half  to 
five  millions.  *  In  1585  ;  Ludovic  Guicciardini. 

8  Henry  VIII.  at  the  beginning  of  his  reign  had  but  one  ship  of  war. 
Elizabeth  sent  out  one  hundred  and  fifty  against  the  Armada.  In  1553 
was  founded  a  company  to  trade  with  Russia.  In  1578  Drake  circum- 
navigated the  glebe.  In  1600  the  East  India  Company  was  founded. 


CHAP.  L  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  233 

about  to  reap  its  advantages  and  set  out  on  its  voyages, 
buzzing  over  the  universe. 

At  the  base  and  on  the  summit  of  society,  in  all 
ranks  of  life,  in  all  grades  of  human  condition,  this  new 
welfare  became  visible.  In  1534,  considering  that  the 
streets  of  London  were  "  very  noyous  and  foul,  and  in 
many  places  thereof  very  jeopardous  to  all  people  pass- 
ing and  repassing,  as  well  on  horseback  as  on  foot," 
Henry  VIII.  began  the  paving  of  the  city.  New  streets 
covered  the  open  spaces  where  the  young  men  used  to  run 
races  and  to  wrestle.  Every  year  the  number  of  taverns, 
theatres,  gambling  rooms,  bear-gardens,  increased.  Be- 
fore the  time  of  Elizabeth  the  country-houses  of  gentle- 
men were  little  more  than  straw-thatched  cottages, 
plastered  with  the  coarsest  clay,  lighted  only  by  trellises. 
"Howbeit,"  says  Harrison  (1580),  "such  as  be  latelie 
builded  are  commonlie  either  of  bricke  or  hard  stone, 
or  both ;  their  roomes  large  and  comelie,  and  houses  of 
office  further  distant  from  their  lodgings."  The  old 
wooden  houses  were  covered  with  plaster,  "  which,  beside 
the  delectable  whitenesse  of  the  stuffe  itselfe,  is  laied 
on  so  even  and  smoothlie,  as  nothing  in  my  judgment 
can  be  done  with  more  exactnesse." J  This  open  admi- 
ration shows  from  what  hovels  they  had  escaped.  Glass 
was  at  last  employed  for  windows,  and  the  bare  walls 
were  covered  with  hangings,  on  which  visitors  might 
see,  with  delight  and  astonishment,  plants,  animals, 
figures.  They  began  to  use  stoves,  and  experienced  the 
unwonted  pleasure  of  being  warm.  Harrison  notes  three 
important  changes  which  had  taken  place  in  the  farm- 
houses of  his  time : 

"  One  is,  the  multitude  of  chimnies  lately  erected,  whereas  in 
1  Nathan  Drake,  Shakspears  and  his  Times,  1817,  i.  T.  72  et  passim. 


234  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

their  yoong  daies  there  were  not  above  two  or  three,  if  so  manie, 
in  most  uplandishe  townes  of  the  realme.  .  .  .  The  second  is 
the  great  (although  not  generall),  amendment  of  lodging,  for  our 
fathers  (yea  and  we  ourselves  also)  have  lien  full  oft  upon  straw 
pallets,  on  rough  mats  covered  onelie  with  a  sheet,  under  cover- 
lets made  of  dagswain,  or  hop -harlots,  and  a  good  round  log 
under  their  heads,  insteed  of  a  bolster  or  pillow.  If  it  were  so 
that  the  good  man  of  the  house,  had  within  seven  yeares  after 
his  marriage  purchased  a  matteres  or  flockebed,  and  thereto  a 
sacke  of  chaffe  to  rest  his  head  upon,  he  thought  himselfe  to  be 
as  well  lodged  as  the  lord  of  the  towne.  .  .  .  Pillowes  (said  they) 
were  thought  meet  onelie  for  women  in  childbed.  .  .  .  The 
third  thing  is  the  exchange  of  vessell,  as  of  treene  platters  into 
pewter,  and  wodden  spoones  into  silver  or  tin ;  for  so  common 
was  all  sorts  of  treene  stuff  in  old  time,  that  a  man  should 
hardlie  find  four  peeces  of  pewter  (of  which  one  was  perad  venture 
a  salt)  in  a  good  farmers  house.  " J 

It  is  not  possession,  but  acquisition,  which  gives  men 
pleasure  and  sense  of  power ;  they  observe  sooner  a 
small  happiness,  new  to  them,  than  a  great  happiness 
which  is  old.  It  is  not  when  all  is  good,  but  when  all 
is  better,  that  they  see  the  bright  side  of  life,  and  are 
tempted  to  make  a  holiday  of  it.  This  is  why  at  this 
period  they  did  make  a  holiday  of  it,  a  splendid  show, 
so  like  a  picture  that  it  fostered  painting  in  Italy,  so 
like  a  piece  of  acting,  that  it  produced  the  drama  in 
England.  Now  that  the  axe  and  sword  of  the  civil 
wars  had  beaten  down  the  independent  nobility,  and  the 
•abolition  of  the  law  of  maintenance  had  destroyed  the 
petty  royalty  of  each  great  feudal  baron,  the  lords 
quitted  their  sombre  castles,  battlemented  fortresses, 
surrounded  by  stagnant  water,  pierced  with  narrow 
windows,  a  sort  of  stone  breastplates  of  no  use  but  to 

1  Nathan  Drake,  Shakspeare  and  his  Times,  i.  v.  102. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  235 

preserve  the  life  of  their  master.  They  flock  into  new 
palaces,  with  vaulted  roofs  and  turrets,  covered  with 
fantastic  and  manifold  ornaments,  adorned  with  terraces 
and  vast  staircases,  with  gardens,  fountains,  statues,  such 
as  were  the  palaces  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Elizabeth,  half 
Gothic  and  half  Italian,1  whose  convenience,  splendour, 
and  symmetry  announced  already  habits  of  society  and 
the  taste  for  pleasure.  They  came  to  court  and  aban- 
doned their  old  manners ;  the  four  meals  which  scarcely 
sufficed  their  former  voracity  were  reduced  to  two; 
gentlemen  soon  became  refined,  placing  their  glory  in 
the  elegance  and  singularity  of  their  amusements  and 
their  clothes.  They  dressed  magnificently  in  splendid 
materials,  with  the  luxury  of  men  who  rustle  silk  and 
make  gold  sparkle  for  the  first  time  :  doublets  of  scarlet 
satin ;  cloaks  of  sable,  costing  a  thousand  ducats ;  velvet 
shoes,  embroidered  with  gold  and  silver,  covered  with 
rosettes  and  ribbons;  boots  with  falling  tops,  from 
whence  hung  a  cloud  of  lace,  embroidered  with  figures 
of  birds,  animals,  constellations,  flowers  in  silver,  gold, 
or  precious  stones ;  ornamented  shirts  costing  ten  pounds 
a  piece.  "  It  is  a  common  thing  to  put  a  thousand 
goats  and  a  hundred  oxen  on  a  coat,  and  to  carry  a 
whole  manor  on  one's  back."  2  The  costumes  of  the 
time  were  like  shrines.  When  Elizabeth  died,  they 
found  three  thousand  dresses  in  her  wardrobe.  Need 
we  speak  of  the  monstrous  ruffs  of  the  ladies,  their 
puffed  out  dresses,  their  stomachers  stiff  with  diamonds  ? 
As  a  singular  sign  of  the  times,  the  men  were  more 

1  This  was  called  the  Tudor  style.  Under  James  I.,  in  the  hands 
of  Inigo  Jones,  it  became  entirely  Italian,  approaching  the  antique. 

8  Burton,  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  12th  ed.  1821.  Stubbes,  Ana. 
tvm.it  of  Abuses,  ed.  Turnbull,  1836. 


236  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

changeable  and  more  bedecked  than  they.  Harrison 
says: 

"  Such  is  our  mutabilitie,  that  to  dale  there  is  none  to  the 
Spanish  guise,  to  morrow  the  French  toies  are  most  fine  and 
delectable,  yer  long  no  such  apparell  as  that  which  is  after  the 
high  Alman  fashion,  by  and  by  the  Turkish  maner  is  general  lie 
best  liked  of,  otherwise  the  Morisco  gowns,  the  Barbarian 
sleeves  .  .  .  and  the  short  French  breeches.  .  .  .  And  as  these 
fashions  are  diverse,  so  likewise  it  is  a  world  to  see  the  costli- 
nesse  and  the  curiositie  ;  the  excesse  and  the  vanitie  ;  the  pompe 
and  the  braverie ;  the  change  and  the  varietie  ;  and  finallie,  the 
ficklenesse  and  the  follie  that  is  in  all  degrees." 1 

Folly,  it  may  have  been,  but  poetry  likewise.  There 
was  something  more  than  puppyism  in  this  masquerade 
of  splendid  costume.  The  overflow  of  inner  sentiment 
found  this  issue,  as  also  in  drama  and  poetry.  It  was 
an  artistic  spirit  which  induced  it.  There  was  an 
incredible  outgrowth  of  living  forms  from  their  brains. 
They  acted  like  their  engravers,  who  give  us  in  their 
frontispieces  a  prodigality  of  fruits,  flowers,  active  figures, 
animals,  gods,  and  pour  out  and  confuse  the  whole 
treasure  of  nature  in  every  corner  of  their  paper.  They 
must  enjoy  the  beautiful ;  they  would  be  happy  through 
their  eyes ;  they  perceive  in  consequence  naturally  the 
relief  and  energy  of  forms.  From  the  accession  of 
Henry  VIII.  to  the  death  of  James  I.  we  find  nothing 
but  tournaments,  processions,  public  entries,  masquerades. 
First  come  the  royal  banquets,  coronation  displays,  large 
and  noisy  pleasures  of  Henry  VIII.  Wolsey  entertains 
him 

"  In  so  gorgeous  a  sort  and  costlie  maner,  that  it  was  an  heaven 

to  behold.     There  wanted  no  dames  or  damosels  meet  or  apt  to 

1  Nathan  Drake,  Shakspeare  and  his  Times,  ii.  6,  87. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  237 

danse  with  the  maskers,  or  to  garnish  the  place  for  the  time : 
then  was  there  all  kind  of  musike  and  harmonic,  with  fine 
voices  both  of  men  and  children.  On  a  time  the  king  came 
suddenlie  thither  in  a  maske  with  a  dozen  maskers  all  in  gar- 
ments like  sheepheards,  made  of  fine  cloth  of  gold,  and  crimosin 
sattin  paned,  .  .  .  having  sixteene  torch-bearers.  ...  In  came 
a  new  banket  before  the  king  wherein  were  served  two  hundred 
diverse  dishes,  of  costlie  devises  and  subtilities.  Thus  passed 
they  foorth  the  night  with  banketting,  dansing,  and  other 
triumphs,  to  the  great  comfort  of  the  king,  and  pleasant  regard 
of  the  nobilitie  there  assembled." l 

Count,  if  you  can,  the  mythological  entertainments,  the 
theatrical  receptions,  the  open-air  operas  played  before 
Elizabeth,  James,  and  their  great  lords.2  At  Kenilworth 
the  pageants  lasted  ten  days.  There  was  everything ; 
learned  recreations,  novelties,  popular  plays,  sanguinary 
spectacles,  coarse  farces,  juggling  and  feats  of  skill, 
allegories,  mythologies,  chivalric  exhibitions,  rustic  and 
national  commemorations.  At  the  same  time,  in  this 
universal  outburst  and  sudden  expanse,  men  become 
interested  in  themselves,  find  their  life  desirable,  worthy 
of  being  represented  and  put  on  the  stage  complete; 
they  play  with  it,  delight  in  looking  upon  it,  love  its 
ups  and  downs,  and  make  of  it  a  work  of  art.  The 
queen  is  received  by  a  sibyl,  then  by  giants  of  the  time  of 
Arthur,  then  by  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Sylvanus,  Pomona, 
Ceres,  and  Bacchus,  every  divinity  in  turn  presents  her 
with  the  first  fruits  of  his  empire.  Next  day,  a  savage, 
dressed  in  moss  and  ivy,  discourses  before  her  with  Echo 
in  her  praise.  Thirteen  bears  are  set  fighting  against 

1  Holinshed  (1586),  1808,  6  vols.  iii.  763  et  passim. 
*  Holinshed,  iii.,   Reign  of  Henry   VIII.     Elizabeth,  and  James 
Progresses,  by  Nichols. 


238  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

dogs.  An  Italian  acrobat  performs  wonderful  feats 
before  the  whole  assembly.  A  rustic  marriage  takes 
place  before  the  queen,  then  a  sort  of  comic  fight 
amongst  the  peasants  of  Coventry,  who  represent  the 
defeat  of  the  Danes.  As  she  is  returning  from  the  chase, 
Triton,  rising  from  the  lake,  prays  her,  in  the  name  of 
Neptune,  to  deliver  the  enchanted  lady,  pursued  by 
a  cruel  knight,  Syr  Bruse  sauns  Pitee.  Presently  the 
lady  appears,  surrounded  by  nymphs,  followed  close  by 
Proteus,  who  is  borne  by  an  enormous  dolphin.  Con- 
cealed in  the  dolphin,  a  band  of  musicians  with  a  chorus 
of  ocean-deities,  sing  the  praise  of  the  powerful,  beautiful, 
chaste  queen  of  England.1  You  perceive  that  comedy 
is  not  confined  to  the  theatre ;  the  great  of  the  realm 
and  the  queen  herself  become  actors.  The  cravings  of 
the  imagination  are  so  keen,  that  the  court  becomes  a 
stage.  Under  James  I.,  every  year,  on  Twelfth-day,  the 
queen,  the  chief  ladies  and  nobles,  played  a  piece  called 
a  Masque,  a  sort  of  allegory  combined  with  dances, 
heightened  in  effect  by  decorations  and  costumes  of 
great  splendour,  of  which  the  mythological  paintings  of 
Rubens  can  alone  give  an  idea : — 

"  The  attire  of  the  lords  was  from  the  antique  Greek  statues. 
On  their  heads  they  wore  Persic  crowns,  that  were  with  scrolls 
of  gold  plate  turned  outward,  and  wreathed  about  with  a  carna- 
tion and  silver  net-lawn.  Their  bodies  were  of  carnation  cloth 
of  silver ;  to  express  the  naked,  in  manner  of  the  Greek  thorax, 
girt  under  the  breasts  with  a  broad  belt  of  cloth  of  gold,  fastened 
with  jewels ;  the  mantles  were  of  coloured  silke ;  the  first,  sky- 
colour  ;  the  second,  pearl-colour ;  the  third,  flame  colour ;  the 
fourth,  tawny.  The  ladies  attire  was  of  white  cloth  of  silver, 
wrought  with  Juno's  birds  and  fruits ;  a  loose  under  garment, 

1  Laneham's  Entertainment  at  Killingworth  Castle,  1575.  Nichol's 
Progresses,  vol.  L  London  1788. 


CHAP.  i.           THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  239 

full  gathered,  of  carnation,  striped  with  silver,  and  parted  with 
a  golden  zone ;  beneath  that,  another  flowing  garment,  of 
watchet  cloth  of  silver,  laced  with  gold ;  their  hair  carelessly 
bound  under  the  circle  of  a  rare  and  rich  coronet,  adorned  with 
all  variety,  and  choice  of  jewels ;  from  the  top  of  which  flowed  a 
transparent  veil,  down  to  the  ground.  Their  shoes  were  azure 
and  gold,  set  with  rubies  and  diamonds."1 

I  abridge  the  description,  which  is  like  a  fairy  tale. 
Fancy  that  all  these  costumes,  this  glitter  of  materials, 
this  sparkling  of  diamonds,  this  splendour  of  nudities, 
was  displayed  daily  at  the  marriage  of  the  great,  to  the 
bold  sounds  of  a  pagan  epithalamium.  Think  of  the 
feasts  which  the  Earl  of  Carlisle  introduced,  where  was 
served  first  of  all  a  table  loaded  with  sumptuous  viands, 
as  high  as  a  man  could  reach,  in  order  to  remove  it  pre- 
sently, and  replace  it  by  another  similar  table.  This 
prodigality  of  magnificence,  these  costly  follies,  this 
unbridling  of  the  imagination,  this  intoxication  of  eye 
and  ear,  this  comedy  played  by  the  lords  of  the  realm, 
showed,  like  the  pictures  of  Rubens,  Jordaens,  and 
their  Flemish  contemporaries,  so  open  an  appeal  to  the 
senses,  so  complete  a  return  to  nature,  that  our  chilled 
and  gloomy  age  is  scarcely  able  to  imagine  it.2 

III. 

To  vent  the  feelings,  to  satisfy  the  heart  and  eyes,  to 
set  free  boldly  on  all  the  roads  of  existence  the  pack  of 
appetites  and  instincts,  this  was  the  craving  which  the 
manners  of  the  time  betrayed.  It  was  "  merry  England," 

1  Ben  Jonson's  works,  ed.  Gifford,  1816,  9  vols.  Masque  of  Hymen, 
foL  vii.  76. 

8  Certain  private  letters  also  describe  the  court  of  Elizabeth  as  a 
place  where  there  was  little  piety  or  practice  of  religion,  and  where  all 
enormities  reigned  in  the  highest  degree. 


240  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

as  they  called  it  then.  It  was  not  yet  stern  and  con- 
strained. It  expanded  widely,  freely,  and  rejoiced  to 
find  itself  so  expanded.  No  longer  at  court  only  was 
the  drama  found,  but  in  the  village.  Strolling  com- 
panies betook  themselves  thither,  and  the  country  folk 
supplied  any  deficiencies,  when  necessary.  Shakspeare 
saw,  before  he  depicted  them,  stupid  fellows,  carpenters, 
joiners,  bellows-menders,  play  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  re- 
present the  lion  roaring  as  gently  as  any  sucking  dove, 
and  the  wall,  by  stretching  out  their  hands.  Every  holi- 
day was  a  pageant,  in  which  townspeople,  workmen,  and 
children  bore  their  parts.  They  were  actors  by  nature. 
When  the  soul  is  full  and  fresh,  it  does  not  express  its 
ideas  by  reasonings;  it  plays  and  figures  them;  it 
mimics  them;  that  is  the  true  and  original  language, 
the  children's  tongue,  the  speech  of  artists,  of  invention, 
and  of  joy.  It  is  in  this  manner  they  please  them- 
selves with  songs  and  feasting,  on  all  the  symbolic  holi- 
days with  which  tradition  has  filled  the  year.1  On  the 
Sunday  after  Twelfth-night  the  labourers  parade  the 
streets,  with  their  shirts  over  their  coats,  decked  with 
ribbons,  dragging  a  plough  to  the  sound  of  music,  and 
dancing  a  sword-dance ;  on  another  day  they  draw  in 
a  cart  a  figure  made  of  ears  of  corn,  with  songs,  flutes, 
and  drums ;  on  another,  Father  Christmas  and  his  com- 
pany; or  else  they  enact  the  history  of  Eobin  Hood, 
the  bold  archer,  around  the  May-pole,  or  the  legend  of 
Saint  George  and  the  Dragon.  We  might  occupy  half 
a  volume  in  describing  all  these  holidays,  such  as 
Harvest  Home,  All  Saints,  Martinmas,  Sheepshearing, 
above  all  Christmas,  which  lasted  twelve  days,  and 
sometimes  six  weeks.  They  eat  and  drink,  junket, 
1  Nathan  Drake,  Shakipeare  and  his  Times,  chap.  v.  and  vl 


V-I.    P-240. 


SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  241 

tumble  about,  kiss  the  girls,  ring  the  bells,  satiate 
themselves  with  noise  :  coarse  drunken  revels,  in  which 
man  is  an  unbridled  animal,  and  which  are  the  incarna- 
tion of  natural  life.  The  Puritans  made  no  mistake 
about  that.  Stubbes  says : 

"  First,  all  the  wilde  heades  of  the  parishe,  conventying 
together,  chuse  them  a  ground  capitaine  of  mischeef,  whan  they 
innoble  with  the  title  of  my  Lorde  of  Misserule,  and  hym  they 
crown  with  great  solemnitie,  and  adopt  for  their  kyng.  This  kyng 
anoynted,  chuseth  for  the  twentie,  fourtie,  three  score,  or  a  hundred 

lustie  guttes  like  to  hymself  towaite  uppon  his  lordelymaiestie 

Then  have  they  their  hobble  horses,  dragons,  and  other  antiques, 
together  with  their  baudie  pipers  and  thunderyng  drommers,  to 
strike  up  the  devilles  daunce  withall :  then  marche  these  heathen 
companie  towardes  the  churche  and  churche-yarde,  their  pipers 
pipyng,  their  drommers  thouderyng,  their  stumppes  dauncyng, 
their  belles  rynglyng,  their  handkerchefes  swyngyng  about  their 
heades  like  madmen,  their  hobbie  horses  and  other  monsters 
skirmishyng  amongest  the  throng ;  and  in  this  sorte  they  goe  to 
the  churche  (though  the  minister  bee  at  praier  or  preachyng), 
dauncyng,  and  swingyng  their  handkercheefes  over  their  heades, 
in  the  churche,  like  devilles  incarnate,  with  such  a  confused  noise, 
that  no  man  can  heare  his  owne  voice.  Then  the  foolishe  people 
they  looke,  thay  stare,  they  laugh,  they  fleere,  and  mount  upon 
formes  and  pewes,  to  see  these  goodly  pageauntes,  solemnized  in 
this  sort.  Then  after  this,  aboute  the  churche  they  goe  againe 
and  againe,  and  so  forthe  into  the  churche-yarde,  where  they  have 
commonly  their  sommer  haules,  their  bowers,  arbours,  and 
banquettyng  houses  set  up,  wherein  they  feaste,  banquet,  and 
daunce  all  that  dale,  and  peradventure  all  that  night  too.  And 
thus  these  terrestriall  furies  spend  the  Sabbaoth  daie  !  .  .  .  An 
other  sorte  of  fantastical!  fooles  bringe  to  these  helhoundes  (the 
Lorde  of  Misrule  and  his  complices)  some  bread,  some  good  ale, 
some  newe  cheese,  some  olde  cheese,  some  custardes,  some  cakes, 
some  flaunes,  some  tartes,  some  creame,  some  meate,  some  one 
thing,  some  an  other." 

VOL    L  R 


242  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

He  continues  thus : 

"Against  Male,  every  parishe,  towne  and  village  assemble 
themselves  together,  bothe  men,  women,  and  children,  olde  and 
yong,  even  all  indifferently  ;  they  goe  to  the  woodes  where  they 
spende  all  the  night  in  pleasant  pastymes,  and  in  the  mornyng 
they  returne,  bringing  with  them  birch,  bowes,  and  branches  of 
trees,  to  deck  their  assemblies  withall.  But  their  cheefest  iewell 
they  bringe  from  thence  is  their  Maie  poole,  whiche  they  bring 
home  with  great  veneration,  as  thus  :  They  have  twenty  or  four- 
tie  yoke  of  oxen,  every  ox  havyng  a  sweete  nosegaie  of  flowers 
tyed  on  the  tippe  of  his  homes,  and  these  oxen,  drawe  home  this 
Maie  poole  (this  stinckyng  idoll  rather)  .  .  .  and  thus  beyng 
reared  up,  they  strawe  the  grounde  aboute,  binde  greene  boughes 
about  it,  sett  up  sommer  haules,  bowers,  and  arbours  hard  by  it ; 
and  then  fall  they  to  banquet  and  feast,  toleape  and  daunce 
aboute  it,  as  the  heathen  people  did  at  the  dedication  of  their 
idolles.  .  .  .  Of  a  hundred  maides  goyng  to  the  woode  over  night, 
there  have  scarcely  the  third  parte  returned  home  againe 
undefiled." l 

"  On  Shrove  Tuesday,"  says  another,2  "  at  the  sound 
of  a  bell,  the  folk  become  insane,  thousands  at  a  time, 
and  forget  all  decency  and  common  sense.  ...  It  is  to 
Satan  and  the  devil  that  they  pay  homage  and  do  sacri- 
fice to  in  these  abominable  pleasures."  It  is  in  fact  to 
nattire,  to  the  ancient  Pan,  to  Freya,  to  Hertha,  her 
sisters,  to  the  old  Teutonic  deities  who  survived  the 
middle-age.  At  this  period,  in  the  temporary  decay  of 
Christianity,  and  the  sudden  advance  of  corporal  well- 
being,  man  adored  himself,  and  there  endured  no  life 
within  him  but  that  of  paganism. 

1  Stubbes,  Anatomie  of  Abuses,  p.  168  et  passim. 
s  Hentzner's  Travels  in  England  (Bentley's  translation).   He  thought 
that  the  figure  carried  about  in  the  Harvest  Home  represented  Ceres, 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  243 

IV. 

To  sum  up,  observe  the  process  of  ideas  at  this  time. 
A  few  sectarians,  chiefly  in  the  towns  and  of  the  people, 
clung  gloomily  to  the  Bible.  But  the  court  and  the 
men  of  the  world  sought  their  teachers  and  their  heroes 
from  pagan  Greece  and  Rome.  About  14901  they 
began  to  read  the  classics ;  one  after  the  other  they  trans- 
lated them  ;  it  was  soon  the  fashion  to  read  them  in  the 
original.  Queen  Elizabeth,  Jane  Grey,  the  Duchess  of 
Norfolk,  the  Countess  of  Arundel,  and  many  other  ladies, 
were  conversant  with  Plato,  Xenophon,  and  Cicero  in 
the  original,  and  appreciated  them.  Gradually,  by  an 
insensible  change,  men  were  raised  to  the  level  of  the 
great  and  healthy  minds  who  had  freely  handled  ideas 
of  all  kinds  fifteen  centuries  before.  They  comprehended 
not  only  their  language,  but  their  thought ;  they  did 
not  repeat  lessons  from,  but  held  conversations  with 
them;  they  were  their  equals,  and  found  in  them 
intellects  as  manly  as  their  own.  For  they  were  not 
scholastic  cavillers,  miserable  compilers,  repulsive  ped- 
ants, like  the  professors  of  jargon  whom  the  middle-age 
had  set  over  them,  like  gloomy  Duns  Scotus,  whose 
leaves  Henry  VIII.'s  Visitors  scattered  to  the  winds. 
They  were  gentlemen,  statesmen,  the  most  polished  and 
best  educated  men  in  the  world,  who  knew  how  to 
speak,  and  drew  their  ideas  not  from  books,  but  from 
tilings,  living  ideas,  and  which  entered  of  themselves 
into  living  souls.  Across  the  train  of  hooded  school- 
men and  sordid  cavillers  the  two  adult  and  thinking 
ages  were  united,  and  the  moderns,  silencing  the  infan- 

1  Warton,  vol.  ii.  sect.  35.  Before  1600  all  the  great  poets  were 
translated  into  English,  and  between  1550  and  1616  all  the  great  his- 
torians of  Greece  and  Rome.  Lyly  in  1 500  first  taught  Greek  in  public. 


244  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  rt 

tine  or  snuffling  voices  of  the  middle-age,  condescended 
only  to  converse  with  the  noble  ancients.  They 
accepted  their  gods,  at  least  they  understand  them, 
and  keep  them  by  their  side.  In  poems,  festivals,  on 
hangings,  almost  in  all  ceremonies,  they  appear,  not 
restored  by  pedantry  merely,  but  kept  alive  by  sympathy, 
and  endowed  by  the  arts  with  a  life  as  flourishing  and 
almost  as  profound  as  that  of  their  earliest  birth. 
After  the  terrible  night  of  the  middle-age,  and  the 
dolorous  legends  of  spirits  and  the  damned,  it  was  a 
delight  to  see  again  Olympus  shining  upon  us  from 
Greece;  its  heroic  and  beautiful  deities  once  more 
ravishing  the  heart  of  men ;  they  raised  and  instructed 
this  young  world  by  speaking  to  it  the  language  of 
passion  and  genius ;  and  this  age  of  strong  deeds,  free 
sensuality,  bold  invention,  had  only  to  follow  its  own 
bent,  in  order  to  discover  in  them  its  masters  and  the 
eternal  promoters  of  liberty  and  beauty. 

Nearer  still  was  another  paganism,  that  of  Italy; 
the  more  seductive  because  more  modern,  and  because 
it  circulates  fresh  sap  in  an  ancient  stock;  the  more 
attractive,  because  more  sensuous  and  present,  with  its 
worship  of  force  and  genius,  of  pleasure  and  voluptu- 
ousness. The  rigorists  knew  this  well,  and  were  shocked 
at  it.  Ascham  writes : 

"  These  bee  the  inchantementes  of  Circes,  brought  out  of  Italie 
to  marre  mens  raaners  in  England  ;  much,  by  example  of  ill  life, 
but  more  by  preceptes  of  fonde  bookes,  of  late  translated  out  of 
Italian  into  English,  sold  in  every  shop  in  London.  .  .  .  There 
bee  moe  of  these  ungratious  bookes  set  out  in  Printe  wythin 
these  fewe  monethes,  than  have  bene  sene  in  England  many 
score  yeares  before.  .  .  .  Than  they  have  in  more  reverence  the 
triumphes  of  Petrarche :  than  the  Genesis  of  Moses :  They 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  246 

make  more  account  of  Tullies  offices,  than  S.  Paules  epistles : 
of  a  tale  in  Bocace  than  a  storie  of  the  Bible."1 

In  fact,  at  that  time  Italy  clearly  led  in  everything, 
and  civilisation  was  to  be  drawn  thence,  as  from  its 
spring.  What  is  this  civilisation  which  is  thus  imposed 
on  the  whole  of  Europe,  whence  every  science  and 
every  elegance  comes,  whose  laws  are  obeyed  in  every 
court,  in  which  Surrey,  Sidney,  Spenser,  Shakspeare 
sought  their  models  and  their  materials  ?  It  was  pagan 
in  its  elements  and  its  birth ;  in  its  language,  which  is 
but  Latin,  hardly  changed ;  in  its  Latin  traditions  and 
recollections,  which  no  gap  has  interrupted;  in  its 
constitution,  whose  old  municipal  life  first  led  and 
absorbed  the  feudal  life ;  in  the  genius  of  its  race,  in 
which  energy  and  joy  always  abounded.  More  than 
a  century  before  other  nations, — from  the  time  of 
Petrarch,  Eienzi,  Boccaccio, — the  Italians  began  to  recover 
the  lost  antiquity,  to  set  free  the  manuscripts  buried  in 
the  dungeons  of  France  and  Germany,  to  restore,  inter- 
pret, comment  upon,  study  the  ancients,  to  make  them- 
selves Latin  in  heart  and  mind,  to  compose  in  prose 
and  verse  with  the  polish  of  Cicero  and  Virgil,  to  hold 
sprightly  converse  and  intellectual  pleasures  as  the 
ornament  and  the  fairest  flower  of  life.2  They  adopt  not 
merely  the  externals  of  the  life  of  the  ancients,  but  its 
very  essence,  that  is,  preoccupation  with  the  present  life, 
forgetfulness  of  the  future,  the  appeal  to  the  senses,  the 

1  Ascham,  The  Scholemaster  (1570),  ed.  Arber,  1870,  first  book,  78 
et  passim. 

3  Ma  il  vero  e  principal  ornemento  dell'  animo  in  ciascuno  penso  io 
che  siano  le  lettere,  benche  i  Francliesi  solamente  conoscano  la  nobilith 
dell'arme  .  .  .  et  tutti  i  litterati  tengon  per  vilissimi  huomini.  Cas- 
tlglione,  il  Cortegiano,  ed.  1686,  p.  112. 


246  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  11. 

renunciation  of  Christianity.  "We  must  enjoy,"  sang 
their  first  poet,  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  in  his  pastorals  and 
triumphal  songs  :  "  there  is  no  certainty  of  to-morrow." 
In  Pulci  the  mocking  incredulity  breaks  out,  the  bold 
and  sensual  gaiety,  all  the  audacity  of  the  free-thinkers, 
who  kicked  aside  in  disgust  the  worn-out  monkish  frock 
of  the  middle  age.  It  was  he  who,  in  a  jesting  poem, 
puts  at  the  beginning  of  each  canto  a  Hosanna,  an  In 
principio,  or  a  sacred  text  from  the  mass-book.1  When 
he  had  been  inquiring  what  the  soul  was,  and  how  it 
entered  the  body,  he  compared  it  to  jam  covered  up  in 
white  bread  quite  hot.  What  would  become  of  it  in 
the  other  world  ?  "  Some  people  think  they  will  there 
discover  becafico's,  plucked  ortolans,  excellent  wine, 
good  beds,  and  therefore  they  follow  the  monks,  walking 
behind  them.  As  for  us,  dear  friend,  we  shall  go  into 
the  black  valley,  where  we  shall  hear  no  more  Alleluias." 
If  you  wish  for  a  more  serious  thinker,  listen  to  the 
great  patriot,  the  Thucydldes  of  the  age,  Machiavelli, 
who,  contrasting  Christianity  and  paganism,  says  that 
the  first  places  "  supreme  happiness  in  humility,  abjec- 
tion, contempt  for  human  things,  while  the  other  makes 
the  sovereign  good  consist  in  greatness  of  soul,  force  of 
body,  and  all  the  qualities  which  make  men  to  be  feared." 
Whereon  he  boldly  concludes  that  Christianity  teaches 
man  "to  support  evils,  and  not  to  do  great  deeds;"  he 
discovers  in  that  inner  weakness  the  cause  of  all  oppres- 
sions ;  declares  that  "  the  wicked  saw  that  they  could 
tyrannise  without  fear  over  men,  who,  in  order  to  get  to 
paradise,  were  more  disposed  to  suffer  than  to  avenge 
injuries."  Through  such  sayings,  in  spite  of  his  con- 

1  See  Burchard  (the  Pope's  Steward),  account  of  the  festival  at  which 
Lucretia  Borgia  was  present.     Letters  of  Aretinus,  Life  of  Cellini,  etc. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  247 

strained  genuflexions,  we  can  see  which  religion  he 
prefers.  The  ideal  to  which  all  efforts  were  turning,  on 
which  all  thoughts  depended,  and  which  completely 
raised  this  civilisation,  was  the  strong  and  happy  man, 
possessing  all  the  powers  to  accomplish  his  wishes,  and 
disposed  to  use  them  in  pursuit  of  his  happiness. 

If  you  would  see  this  idea  in  its  grandest  operation, 
you  must  seek  it  in  the  arts,  such  as  Italy  made  them 
and  carried  throughout  Europe,  raising  or  transforming 
the  national  schools  with  such  originality  and  vigour, 
that  all  art  likely  to  survive  is  derived  from  hence, 
and  the  population  of  living  figures  with  which  they 
have  covered  our  walls,  denotes,  like  Gothic  architecture 
or  French  tragedy,  a  unique  epoch  of  human  intelli- 
gence. The  attenuated  mediaeval  Christ — a  miserable, 
distorted,  and  bleeding  earth-worm ;  the  pale  and  ugly 
Virgin — a  poor  old  peasant  woman,  fainting  beside  the 
cross  of  her  Son ;  ghastly  martyrs,  dried  up  with  fasts, 
with  entranced  eyes ;  knotty-fingered  saints  with  sunken 
chests, — all  the  touching  or  lamentable  visions  of  the 
middle-age  have  vanished  :  the  train  of  godheads  which 
are  now  developed  show  nothing  but  flourishing  frames, 
noble,  regular  features,  and  fine  easy  gestures;  the 
names,  the  names  only,  are  Christian.  The  new  Jesus 
is  a  "  crucified  Jupiter,"  as  Pulci  called  }\\m ;  the 
Virgins  which  Raphael  sketched  naked,  before  covering 
them  with  garments,1  are  beautiful  girls,  quite  earthly, 
related  to  the  Fornarina.  The  saints  which  Michel 
Angelo  arranges  and  contorts  in  heaven  in  his  picture 
of  the  Last  Judgment  are  an  assembly  of  athletes, 
capable  of  fighting  well  and  daring  much.  A  martyr- 

1  See  his  sketches  at  Oxford,  and  those  of  Fra  Bartolomeo  at  Flor- 
ence.    See  also  the  Martyrdom  of  St.  Laurence,  by  Baccio  Bandinelli. 


248  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

dom,  like  that  of  Saint  Laurence,  is  a  fine  ceremony  in 
which  a  beautiful  young  man,  without  clothing,  lies 
amidst  fifty  men  dressed  and  grouped  as  in  an  ancient 
gymnasium.  Is  there  one  of  them  who  had  macerated 
himself?  Is  there  one  who  had  thought  with  anguish 
and  tears  of  the  judgment  of  God,  who  had  worn  down 
and  subdued  his  flesh,  who  had  filled  his  heart  with 
the  sadness  and  sweetness  of  the  gospel?  They  are 
too  vigorous  for  that,  they  are  in  too  robust  health ; 
their  clothes  fit  them  too  well;  they  are  too  ready  for 
prompt  and  energetic  action.  "We  might  make  of  them 
strong  soldiers  or  superb  courtesans,  admirable  in  a 
pageant  or  at  a  ball.  So,  all  that  the  spectator  accords 
to  their  halo  of  glory,  is  a  bow  or  a  sign  of  the  cross ; 
after  which  his  eyes  find  pleasure  in  them ;  they  are 
there  simply  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  eyes.  What 
the  spectator  feels  at  tho  sight  of  a  Florentine  Madonna, 
is  the  splendid  creature,  whose  powerful  body  and  fine 
growth  bespeak  her  race  and  her  vigour ;  the  artist  did 
not  paint  moral  expression  as  nowadays,  the  depth  of  a 
soul  tortured  and  refined  by  three  centuries  of  culture. 
They  confine  themselves  to  the  body,  to  the  extent  even 
of  speaking  enthusiastically  of  the  spinal  column  itself, 
"  which  is  magnificent ; "  of  the  shoulder-blades,  which 
in  the  movements  of  the  arm  "  produce  an  admirable 
effect."  "  You  will  next  draw  the  bone  which  is  situ- 
ated between  the  hips.  It  is  very  fine,  and  is  called 
the  sacrum."1  The  important  point  with  them  is  to 
represent  the  nude  well.  Beauty  with  them  is  that  of 
the  complete  skeleton,  sinews  which  are  linked  together 
and  tightened,  the  thighs  which  support  the  trunk,  the 
strong  chest  breathing  freely,  the  pliant  neck.  What. 

1  Ben v en u to  Cellini,  Principles  of  the  Art  of  Design. 


CHAP,  t          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  249 

a  pleasure  to  be  naked  !  How  good  it  is  in  the  full 
light  to  rejoice  in  a  strong  body,  well-formed  muscles, 
a  spirited  and  bold  soul !  The  splendid  goddesses 
reappear  in  their  primitive  nudity,  not  dreaming  that 
they  are  nude ;  you  see  from  the  tranquillity  of  their 
look,  the  simplicity  of  their  expression,  that  they  have 
always  been  thus,  and  that  shame  has  not  yet  reached 
them.  The  soul's  life  is  not  here  contrasted,  as  amongst 
us,  with  the  body's  life ;  the  one  is  not  so  lowered  and 
degraded,  that  we  dare  not  show  its  actions  and  func- 
tions ;  they  do  not  hide  them ;  man  does  not  dream  of 
being  all  spirit.  They  rise,  as  of  old,  from  the  luminous 
sea,  with  their  rearing  steeds  tossing  up  their  manes, 
champing  the  bit,  inhaling  the  briny  savour,  whilst  their 
companions  wind  the  sounding-shell;  and  the  specta- 
tors,1 accustomed  to  handle  the  sword,  to  combat  naked 
with  the  dagger  or  double-handled  blade,  to  ride  on 
perilous  roads,  sympathise  with  the  proud  shape  of  the 
bended  back,  the  effort  of  the  arm  about  to  strike,  the 
long  quiver  of  the  muscles  which,  from  neck  to  heel, 
swell  out,  to  brace  a  man,  or  to  throw  him. 

1  Life  of  Cellini.  Compare  also  these  exercises  which  Castiglione 
prescribes  for  a  well-educated  man,  in  his  Cortegiano,  ed.  1585,  p.  55: — 
"  Pero  voglio  che  il  nostro  cortegiano  sia  perfetto  cavaliere  d'ogni  sella. 
.  .  .  Et  perche  degli  Italiani  e  peculiar  laude  il  cavalcare  bene  alia  brida, 
il  maneggiar  con  raggione  massimamente  cavalli  aspri,  il  corre  lance,  il 
giostare,  sia  in  questo  de  meglior  Italiani.  .  .  .  Nel  tomeare,  tener  un 
passo,  combattere  una  sbarra,  sia  buono  tra  il  miglior  francesi.  .  .  .  Nel 
giocare  a  canne,  correr  torn,  lanciar  haste  e  dardi,  sia  tra  Spagnuoli  eccel- 
lente  ....  Conveniente  e  ancor  sapere  saltare,  e  correre ;  .  .  . .  ancor 
nobile  exercitio  il  gioco  di  palla,  . .  .  Nou  di  minor  laude  estiiuo  il  volte- 
giar  a  cavallo.' 


250  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

§  2.  POETRY. 

I. 

Transplanted  into  different  races  and  climates,  thia 
paganism  receives  from  each,  distinct  features  and  a 
distinct  character.  In  England  it  becomes  English; 
the  English  Renaissance  is  the  Renaissance  of  the 
Saxon  genius.  Invention  recommences ;  and  to  invent 
is  to  express  one's  genius.  A  Latin  race  can  only 
invent  by  expressing  Latin  ideas ;  a  Saxon  race  by  ex- 
pressing Saxon  ideas;  and  we  shall  find  in  the  new 
civilisation  and  poetry,  descendants  of  Csedmon  and 
Adhelm,  of  Piers  Plowman,  and  Robin  Hood. 

II. 
Old  Puttenham  says : 

"  In  the  latter  end  of  the  same  king  (Henry  the  eighth)  reigne, 
sprong  up  a  new  company  of  courtly  makers,  of  whom  Sir 
Thomas  Wyat  th'  elder  and  Henry  Earle  of  Surrey  were  the  two 
chieftaines,  who  having  travailed  into  Italie,  and  there  tasted 
the  sweete  and  stately  measures  and  stile  of  the  Italian  Poesie, 
as  novices  newly  crept  out  of  the  schooles  of  Dante,  Arioste,  and 
Petrarch,  they  greatly  pollished  our  rude  and  homely  maner  of 
vulgar  Poesie,  from  that  it  had  bene  before,  and  for  that  cause 
may  justly  be  sayd  the  first  reformers  of  our  English  meetre 
and  stile."1 

Not  that  their  style  was  very  original,  or  openly  exhibits 
the  new  spirit:  the  middle-age  is  nearly  ended,  but 
not  quite.  By  their  side  Andrew  Borde,  John  Bale, 
John  Heywood,  Skelton  himself,  repeat  the  plati- 
tudes of  the  old  poetry  and  the  coarseness  of  the  old 
style.  Their  manners,  hardly  refined,  were  still  half 

1  Puttenham,  The  ArU  of  English  Poesie,  ed.  Arber,  1868,  book  L  oh. 
31,  JL  74. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  251 

feudal;  on  the  field,  before  Landrecies,  the  English 
commander  wrote  a  friendly  letter  to  the  French  gover- 
nor of  T^rouanne,  to  ask  him  "if  he  had  not  some 
gentlemen  disposed  to  break  a  lance  in  honour  of  the 
ladies,"  and  promised  to  send  six  champions  to  meet 
them.  Parades,  combats,  wounds,  challenges,  love, 
appeals  to  the  judgment  of  God,  penances, — all  these 
are  found  in  the  life  of  Surrey  as  in  a  chivalric  romance. 
A  great  lord,  an  earl,  a  relative  of  the  king,  who  had 
figured  in  processions  and  ceremonies,  had  made  war, 
commanded  fortresses,  ravaged  countries,  mounted  to  the 
assault,  fallen  in  the  breach,  had  been  saved  by  his 
servant,  magnificent,  sumptuous,  irritable,  ambitious, 
four  times  imprisoned,  finally  beheaded.  At  the  corona- 
tion of  Anne  Boleyn  he  wore  the  fourth  sword ;  at  the 
marriage  of  Anne  of  Cleves  he  was  one  of  the  challengers 
at  the  jousts.  Denounced  and  placed  in  durance,  he 
offered  to  fight  in  his  shirt  against  an  armed  adversary. 
Another  time  he  was  put  in  prison  for  having  eaten  flesh 
in  Lent.  No  wonder  if  this  prolongation  of  chivalric 
manners  brought  with  it  a  prolongation  of  chivalric 
poetry ;  if  in  an  age  which  had  known  Petrarch,  poets 
displayed  the  sentiments  of  Petrarch.  Lord  Berners, 
Sackville,  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  and  Surrey  in  the  first 
rank,  were  like  Petrarch,  plaintive  and  platonic  lovers. 
It  was  pure  love  to  which  Surrey  gave  expression ;  for  his 
lady,  the  beautiful  Geraldine,  like  Beatrice  and  Laura, 
was  an  ideal  personage,  and  a  child  of  thirteen  years. 

And  yet,  amid  this  languor  of  mystical  tradition,  a 
personal  feeling  had  sway.  In  this  spirit  which  imi- 
tated, and  that  badly  at  times,  which  still  groped  for  an 
outlet  and  now  and  then  admitted  into  its  polished 
stanzas  the  old,  simple  expressions  and  stale  metaphors  of 


252  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

heralds  of  arms  and  trouveres,  there  was  already  visible 
the  Northern  melancholy,  the  inner  and  gloomy  emotion. 
This  feature,  which  presently,  at  the  finest  moment  of 
its  richest  blossom,  in  the  splendid  expansiveness  of 
natural  life,  spreads  a  sombre  tint  over  the  poetry  of 
Sidney,  Spenser,  Shakspeare,  already  in  the  first  poet 
separates  this  pagan  yet  Teutonic  world  from  the  other, 
wholly  voluptuous,  which  in  Italy,  with  lively  and 
refined  irony,  had  no  taste,  except  for  art  and  pleasure. 
Surrey  translated  the  Ecclesiastes  into  verse.  Is  it  not 
singular,  at  this  early  hour,  in  this  rising  dawn,  to  find 
such  a  book  in  his  hand?  A  disenchantment,  a  sad  or 
bitter  dreaminess,  an  innate  consciousness  of  the  vanity 
of  human  things,  are  never  lacking  in  this  country  and 
in  this  race ;  the  inhabitants  support  life  with  difficulty, 
and  know  how  to  speak  of  death.  Surrey's  finest  verses 
bear  witness  thus  soon  to  his  serious  bent,  this  instinc- 
tive and  grave  philosophy.  He  records  his  griefs, 
regretting  his  beloved  Wyatt,  his  friend  Clere,  his  com- 
panion the  young  Duke  of  Eichmond,  all  dead  in  their 
prime.  Alone,  a  prisoner  at  Windsor,  he  recalls  the 
happy  days  they  have  passed  together : 

"  So  cruel  prison  how  could  betide,  alas, 

As  proud  Windsor,  where  I  in  lust  and  joy, 
With  a  Kinges  son,  my  childish  years  did  pass, 
In  greater  feast  than  Priam's  son  of  Troy. 

Where  each  sweet  place  returns  a  taste  full  sour, 
The  large  green  courts,  where  we  were  wont  to  hove, 

With  eyes  cast  up  into  the  Maiden's  tower, 
And  easy  sighs,  such  as  folk  draw  in  love. 

The  stately  seats,  the  ladies  bright  of  line. 
The  dances  short,  long  tales  of  great  delight, 


CHAP.  I.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  253 

With  words  and  looks,  that  tigers  could  but  rue ; 
Where  each  of  us  did  plead  the  other's  right. 

The  palme-play,  where,  despoiled  for  the  game, 
With  dazed  eyes  oft  we  by  gleams  of  love 

Have  miss'd  the  ball,  and  got  sight  of  our  dame, 
To  bait  her  eyes,  which  kept  the  leads  above.  .  .  . 

The  secret  thoughts,  imparted  with  such  trust ; 

The  wanton  talk,  the  divers  change  of  play ; 
The  friendship  sworn,  each  promise  kept  so  just, 

Wherewith  we  past  the  winter  night  away. 

And  with  his  thought  the  blood  forsakes  the  face ; 

The  tears  berain  my  cheeks  of  deadly  hue  : 
The  which,  as  soon  as  sobbing  sighs,  alas ! 

CJp-supped  have,  thus  I  my  plaint  renew  : 

0  place  of  bliss  !  renewer  of  my  woes  ! 

Give  me  account,  where  is  my  noble  fere  1 
Whom  in  thy  walls  thou  dost  each  night  enclose ; 

To  other  lief;  but  unto  me  most  dear. 

Echo,  alas  !  that  doth  my  sorrow  rue, 

Returns  thereto  a  hollow  sound  of  plaint."1 

So  in  love,  it  is  the  sinking  of  a  weary  soul,  to  which 
he  gives  vent : 

"  For  all  things  having  life,  sometime  hath  quiet  rest ; 
The  bearing  ass,  the  drawing  ox,  and  every  other  beast ; 
The  peasant,  and  the  post,  that  serves  «•'  all  assays ; 
The  ship-boy,  and  the  galley-slave,  have  time  to  take  their  ease  ; 
Save  I,  alas !  whom  care  of  force  doth  so  constrain, 
To  wail  the  day,  and  wake  the  night,  continually  in  pain, 
From  pensiveness  to  plaint,  from  plaint  to  bitter  tears, 
From  tears  to  painful  plaint  again ;  and  thus  my  life  it  wears." 

1  Surrey's  Poems,  Pickering,  1831,  p.  17. 

a  Ibid.     "The  faithful  lover  declareth  his  pains  and  his  uncertain 
joys,  and.  with  only  hope  recomforteth  his  woful  heart,"  p.  53- 


264  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

That  which  brings  joy  to  others  brings  him  grief : 

"  The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings, 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale. 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 
The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs ; 
The  hart  has  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings  ; 
The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale ; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings ; 
Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowers'  bale. 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs  ! " l 

For  all  that,  he  will  love  on  to  his  last  sigh. 

"  Yea,  rather  die  a  thousand  times,  than  once  to  false  my  faith 
And  if  my  feeble  corpse,  through  weight  of  woful  smart 
Do  fail,  or  faint,  my  will  it  is  that  still  she  keep  my  heart. 
And  when  this  carcass  here  to  earth  shall  oe  refar'd, 
I  do  bequeath  my  wearied  ghost  to  serve  her  afterward."2 

An  infinite  love,  and  pure  as  Petrarch's ;  and  she  is 
worthy  of  it.  In  the  midst  of  all  these  studied  or 
imitated  verses,  an  admirable  portrait  stands  out,  the 
simplest  and  truest  we  can  imagine,  a  work  of  the 
heart  now,  and  not  of  the  memory,  which  behind  the 
Madonna  of  chivalry  shows  the  English  wife,  and  be- 
yond feudal  gallantry  domestic  bliss.  Surrey  alone, 
restless,  hears  within  him  the  firm  tones  of  a  good 
friend,  a  sincere  counsellor,  Hope,  who  speaks  to  him 
thus  : 

1  Surrey's  Poems.  "  Description  of  Spring,  wherein  every  thing 
renews,  save  only  the  lover,"  p.  3.  *  Ibid.  p.  56. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  255 

"  For  I  assure  thee,  even  by  oath, 
And  thereon  take  my  hand  and  troth, 
That  she  is  one  the  worthiest, 
The  truest,  and  the  faithfullest ; 
The  gentlest  and  the  meekest  of  mind 
That  here  on  earth  a  man  may  find  : 
And  if  that  love  and  truth  were  gone, 
In  her  it  might  be  found  alone. 
For  in  her  mind  no  thought  there  is, 
But  how  she  may  be  true,  I  wis  ; 
And  tenders  thee  and  all  thy  heale, 
And  wishes  both  thy  health  and  weal ; 
And  loves  thee  even  as  far  forth  than 
As  any  woman  may  a  man  ; 
And  is  thine  own,  and  so  she  says ; 
And  cares  for  thee  ten  thousand  ways. 
Of  thee  she  speaks,  on  thee  she  thinks  ; 
With  thee  she  eats,  with  thee  she  drinks  ; 
With  thee  she  talks,  with  thee  she  moans  ; 
With  thee  she  sighs,  with  thee  she  groans  ; 
With  thee  she  says  '  Farewell  mine  own  ! ' 
When  thou,  God  knows,  full  far  art  gone. 
And  even,  to  tell  thee  all  aright, 
To  thee  she  says  full  oft  '  Good  night ! ' 
And  names  thee  oft  her  own  most  dear, 
Her  comfort,  weal,  and  all  her  cheer ; 
And  tells  her  pillow  all  the  tale 
How  thou  hast  done  her  woe  and  bale ; 
And  how  she  longs,  and  plains  for  thee, 
And  says,  '  Why  art  thou  so  from  me  ? ' 
Am  I  not  she  that  loves  thee  best ! 
Do  I  not  wish  thine  ease  and  rest  ? 
Seek  I  not  how  I  may  thee  please  ? 
Why  art  thou  then  so  from  thine  ease? 
If  I  be  she  for  whom  thou  carest, 
For  whom  in  torments  so  thou  forest, 


256  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

Alas  !  thou  knowest  to  find  me  here, 
Where  I  remain  thine  own  most  dear. 
Thine  own  most  true,  thine  own  most  just, 
Thine  own  that  loves  thee  still,  and  must ; 
Thine  own  that  cares  alone  for  thee, 
As  thou,  I  think,  dost  care  for  me ; 
And  even  the  woman,  she  alone, 
That  is  full  bent  to  be  thine  own." l 

Certainly  it  is  of  his  wife 2  that  he  is  thinking  here, 
not  of  an  imaginary  Laura.  The  poetic  dream  of 
Petrarch  has  become  the  exact  picture  of  deep  and  per- 
fect conjugal  affection,  such  as  yet  survives  in  England  ; 
such  as  all  the  poets,  from  the  authoress  of  the  Nid- 
brown  Maid  to  Dickens,3  have  never  failed  to  represent. 

III. 

An  English  Petrarch :  no  juster  title  could  be  given 
to  Surrey,  for  it  expresses  his  talent  as  well  as  his  dis- 
position. In  fact,  like  Petrarch,  the  oldest  of  the 
humanists,  and  the  earliest  exact  writer  of  the  modern 
tongue,  Surrey  introduces  a  new  style,  the  manly  style, 
which  marks  a  great  change  of  the  mind ;  for  this  new 
form  of  writing  is  the  result  of  superior  reflection, 
which,  governing  the  primitive  impulse,  calculates  and 
selects  with  an  end  in  view.  At  last  the  intellect  has 
grown  capable  of  self-criticism,  and  actually  criticises 
itself.  It  corrects  its  uuconsidered  works,  infantine 
and  incoherent,  at  once  incomplete  and  superabundant ; 

1  Surrey's  Poems.  "A  description  of  the  restless  state  of  the 
lover  when  absent  from  the  mistress  of  his  heart, "  p.  78. 

J  In  another  piece,  Complaint  on  the  Absence  of  her  Lover  being  upon 
the  Sea,  he  speaks  in  direct  terms  of  his  wife,  almost  as  affectionately. 

*  Greene,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Webster,  Shakspeare,  Ford, 
Otw»y,  Richardson,  De  Foe,  Fielding,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  eta 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  257 

it  strengthens  and  binds  them  together ;  it  prunes  and 
perfects  them ;  it  takes  from  them  the  master  idea,  to 
set  it  free  and  to  show  it  clearly.  This  is  what  Surrey 
does,  and  his  education  had  prepared  him  for  it;  for 
he  had  studied  Virgil  as  well  as  Petrarch,  and  trans- 
lated two  books  of  the  dSneid,  almost  verse  for  verse. 
In  such  company  a  man  cannot  but  select  his  ideas  and 
connect  his  phrases.  After  their  example,  Surrey  gauges 
the  means  of  striking  the  attention,  assisting  the  intel- 
ligence, avoiding  fatigue  and  weariness.  He  looks 
forward  to  the  last  line  whilst  writing  the  first.  He 
keeps  the  strongest  word  for  the  last,  and  shows  the 
symmetry  of  ideas  by  the  symmetry  of  phrases.  Some- 
times he  guides  the  intelligence  by  a  continuous  series 
of  contrasts  to  the  final  image;  a  kind  of  sparkling 
casket,  in  which  he  means  to  deposit  the  idea  which  he 
carries,  and  to  which  he  directs  our  attention  from  the 
first.1  Sometimes  he  leads  his  reader  to  the  close  of  a 
long  flowery  description,  and  then  suddenly  checks 
him  with  a  sorrowful  phrase.2  He  arranges  his  pro- 
cess, and  knows  how  to  produce  effects ;  he  uses  even 
classical  expressions,  in  which  two  substantives,  each 
supported  by  its  adjective,  are  balanced  on  either  side 
of  the  verb.3  He  collects  his  phrases  in  harmonious 
periods,  and  does  not  neglect  the  delight  of  the  ears 
any  more  than  of  the  mind.  By  his  inversions  he  adds 
force  to  his  ideas,  and  weight  to  his  argument.  He 
selects  elegant  or  noble  terms,  rejects  idle  words  and 
redundant  phrases.  Every  epithet  contains  an  idea, 
every  metaphor  a  sentiment.  There  is  eloquence  in 

1  The  Frailty  and  Hurtfulntss  of  Beauty. 
2  Description  of  Spring.     A  Vow  to  love  faithfully. 

3  Complaint  of  the  Lover  disdained. 
VOL.  L  S 


258  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  11. 

the  regular  development  of  his  thought;  music  in  the 
sustained  accent  of  his  verse. 

Such  is  the  new-born  art.  Those  who  have  ideas, 
now  possess  an  instrument  capable  of  expressing  them. 
Like  the  Italian  painters,  who  in  fifty  years  had  intro- 
duced or  discovered  all  the  technical  tricks  of  the 
brush,  English  writers,  in  half-a-century,  introduce  or  dis- 
cover all  the  artifices  of  language,  period,  elevated  style, 
heroic  verse,  soon  the  grand  stanza,  so  effectually,  that 
a  little  later  the  most  perfect  versifiers,  Dryden,and  Pope 
himself,  says  Dr.  Nott,  will  add  scarce  anything  to  the 
rules,  invented  or  applied,  which  were  employed  in  the 
earliest  efforts.1  Even  Surrey  is  too  near  to  these 
authors,  too  constrained  in  his  models,  not  sufficiently 
free ;  he  has  not  yet  felt  the  fiery  blast  of  the  age ;  we 
do  not  find  in  him  a  bold  genius,  an  impassioned 
writer  capable  of  wide  expansion,  but  a  courtier,  a 
lover  of  elegance,  who,  penetrated  by  the  beauties  of 
two  finished  literatures,  imitates  Horace  and  the  chosen 
masters  of  Italy,  corrects  and  polishes  little  morsels, 
aims  at  speaking  perfectly  fine  language.  Amongst 
semi-barbarians  he  wears  a  full  dress  becomingly.  Yet 
he  does  not  wear  it  completely  at  his  ease :  he  keeps 
his  eyes  too  exclusively  on  his  models,  and  does  not 
venture  on  frank  and  free  gestures.  He  is  sometimes 
as  a  school-boy,  makes  too  great  use  of  '  hot '  and 
'cold/  wounds  and  martyrdom.  Although  a  lover, 
and  a  genuine  one,  he  thinks  too  much  that  he  must 
be  so  in  Petrarch's  manner,  that  his  phrase  must  be 
balanced  and  his  image  kept  up.  I  had  almost  said 
that,  in  his  sonnets  of  disappointed  love,  he  thinks  less 
often  of  the  strength  of  love  than  of  the  beauty  of  his 
1  Surrey,  ed.  Nott 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  259 

writing.  He  has  conceits,  ill-chosen  words ;  he  uses  trite 
expressions ;  he  relates  how  Nature,  having  formed  his 
lady,  broke  the  mould ;  he  assigns  parts  to  Cupid  and 
Venus ;  he  employs  the  old  machinery  of  the  troubadours 
and  the  ancients,  like  a  clever  man  who  wishes  to  pass  for 
a  gallant.  At  first  scarce  any  mind  dares  be  quite  itself : 
when  a  new  art  arises,  the  first  artist  listens  not  to  his 
heart,  but  to  his  masters,  and  asks  himself  at  every  step 
whether  he  be  setting  foot  on  solid  ground,  or  whether 
he  is  not  stumbling. 

IV. 

Insensibly  the  growth  became  complete,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  century  all  was  changed.  A  new,  strange, 
overloaded  style  had  been  formed,  destined  to  remain 
in  force  until  the  Restoration,  not  only  in  poetry, 
but  also  in  prose,  even  in  ceremonial  speech  and 
theological  discourse,1  so  suitable  to  the  spirit  of  the 
age,  that  we  meet  with  it  at  the  same  time  throughout 
the  whole  of  Europe,  in  Ronsard  and  d'Aubigne",  in 
Calderon,  Gongora,  and  Marini.  In  1580  appeared 
Euphues,  the  Anatomy  of  Wit,  by  Lyly,  which  was  its 
text-book,  its  masterpiece,  its  caricature,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  universal  admiration.2  "  Our  nation,"  says 
Edward  Blount, "  are  in  his  debt  for  a  new  English  which 
hee  taught  them.  All  our  ladies  were  then  his  scollers ; 
and  that  beautie  in  court  who  could  not  parley 
Euphuesme  was  as  little  regarded  as  shee  which  now 
there  speakes  not  French."  The  ladies  knew  the  phrases 

1  The  Speaker's  address  to  Charles  II.  on  his  restoration.  Compare 
it  with  the  speech  of  M.  de  Fontanes  under  the  Empire.  In  each  case 
it  was  the  close  of  a  literary  epocn.  Read  for  illustration  the  speech 
before  the  University  of  Oxford,  Athence  Oxonienses,  i.  193. 

3  His  second  work,  Euphues  and  his  England,  appeared  in  158L 


260  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

of  Euphues  by  heart :  strange,  studied,  and  refined  phrases, 
enigmatical ;  whose  author  seems  of  set  purpose  to  seek 
the  least  natural  expressions  and  the  most  far-fetched, 
full  of  exaggeration  and  antithesis,  in  which  mytholo- 
gical allusions,  reminiscences  from  alchemy,  botanical 
and  astronomical  metaphors,  all  the  rubbish  and  medley 
of  learning,  travels,  mannerism,  roll  in  a  flood  of  conceits 
and  comparisons.  Do  not  judge  it  by  the  grotesque 
picture  that  Walter  Scott  drew  of  it.  Sir  Piercie 
Shafton  is  but  a  pedant,  a  cold  and  dull  copyist ;  it  is 
its  warmth  and  originality  which  give  this  style  a  true 
force  and  an  accent  of  its  own.  You  must  conceive  it, 
not  as  dead  and  inert,  such  as  we  have  it  to-day  in  old 
books,  but  springing  from  the  lips  of  ladies  and  young 
lords  in  pearl-bedecked  doublet,  quickened  by  their 
vibrating  voices,  their  laughter,  the  flash  of  their  eyes, 
the  motion  of  their  hands  as  they  played  with  the  hilt 
of  their  swords  or  with  their  satin  cloaks.  They  were 
full  of  life,  their  heads  filled  to  overflowing;  and  they 
amused  themselves,  as  our  sensitive  and  eager  artists  do, 
at  their  ease  in  the  studio.  They  did  not  speak  to  con- 
vince or  be  understood,  but  to  satisfy  their  excited 
imagination,  to  expend  their  overflowing  wit.1  They 
played  with  words,  twisted,  put  them  out  of  shape, 
enjoyed  sudden  views,  strong  contrasts,  which  they  pro- 
duced one  after  another,  ever  and  anon,  and  in  great 
quantities.  They  cast  flower  on  flower,  tinsel  on  tinsel : 
everything  sparkling  delighted  them;  they  gilded  and 
embroidered  and  plumed  their  language  like  their  gar- 
ments. They  cared  nothing  for  clearness,  order,  common 
sense;  it  was  a  festival  and  a  madness;  absurdity 
pleased  them.  They  knew  nothing  more  tempting  than 
1  See  Shakspeare's  young  men.  Mercutio  especially. 


CHAP.  L          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  261 

a  carnival  of  splendours  and  oddities ;  all  was  huddled 
together :  a  coarse  gaiety,  a  tender  and  sad  word,  a 
pastoral,  a  sounding  flourish  of  unmeasured  boasting,  a 
gambol  of  a  Jack-pudding.  Eyes,  ears,  all  the  senses, 
eager  and  excited,  are  satisfied  by  this  jingle  of  syllables, 
the  display  of  fine  high-coloured  words,  the  unexpected 
clash  of  droll  or  familiar  images,  the  majestic  roll  of 
well-poised  periods.  Every  one  had  his  own  oaths,  his 
elegances,  his  style.  "  One  would  say,"  remarks  Heylyn, 
"  that  they  are  ashamed  of  their  mother-tongue,  and  do 
not  find  it  sufficiently  varied  to  express  the  whims  of 
their  mind."  We  no  longer  imagine  this  inventiveness, 
this  boldness  of  fancy,  this  ceaseless  fertility  of  nervous 
sensibility :  there  was  no  genuine  prose  at  that  time ; 
the  poetic  flood  swallowed  it  up.  A  word  was  not  an 
exact  symbol,  as  with  us;  a  document  which  from 
cabinet  to  cabinet  carried  a  precise  thought.  It  was 
part  of  a  complete  action,  a  little  drama;  when  they 
read  it,  they  did  not  take  it  by  itself,  but  imagined  it 
with  the  intonation  of  a  hissing  and  shrill  voice,  with 
the  puckering  of  the  lips,  the  knitting  of  the  brows, 
and  the  succession  of  pictures  which  crowd  behind  it, 
and  which  it  calls  forth  in  a  flash  of  lightning. 
Each  one  mimics  and  pronounces  it  in  his  own 
style,  and  impresses  his  own  soul  upon  it.  It 
was  a  song,  which,  like  the  poet's  verse,  contains  a 
thousand  things  besides  the  literal  sense,  and  manifests 
the  depth,  warmth,  and  sparkling  of  the  source  whence 
it  flowed.  For  in  that  time,  even  when  the  man  was 
feeble,  his  work  lived ;  there  is  some  pulse  in  the  least 
productions  of  this  age ;  force  and  creative  fire  signalise 
it;  they  penetrate  through  bombast  and  affectation. 
Lyly  himself,  so  fantastic  that,  he  seems  to  write  pur- 
posely in  defiance  of  common  sense,  is  at  times  a 


262  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

genuine  poet ;  a  singer,  a  man  capable  of  rapture,  akin 
to  Spenser  and  Shakspeare;  one  of  those  introspective 
dreamers,  who  see  dancing  fairies,  the  purpled  cheeks 
of  goddesses,  drunken,  amorous  woods,  as  he  says  : 

"  Adorned  with  the  presence  of  my  love, 
The  woods  I  fear  such  secret  power  shall  prove, 
As  they'll  shut  up  each  path,  hide  every  way, 
Because  they  still  would  have  her  go  astray." l 

The  reader  must  assist  me,  and  assist  himself.  I  can- 
not otherwise  give  him  to  understand  what  the  men 
of  this  age  had  the  felicity  to  experience. 

Luxuriance  and  irregularity  were  the  two  features  of 
this  spirit  and  this  literature, — features  common  to  all 
the  literatures  of  the  Renaissance,  but  more  marked 
here  than  elsewhere,  because  the  German  race  is  not 
confined,  like  the  Latin,  by  the  taste  for  harmonious 
forms,  and  prefers  strong  impression  to  fine  expression. 
We  must  select  amidst  this  crowd  of  poets ;  and  here 
is  one  amongst  the  first,  who  exhibits,  by  his  writ- 
ings as  well  as  by  his  life,  the  greatness  and  the  folly 
of  the  prevailing  manners  and  the  public  taste :  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  nephew  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  a  great 
lord  and  a  man  of  action,  accomplished  in  every  kind 
of  culture ;  who,  after  a  good  training  in  classical  litera- 
ture, travelled  in  France,  Germany,  and  Italy  ;  read 
Plato  and  Aristotle,  studied  astronomy  and  geometry  at 
Venice ;  pondered  over  the  Greek  tragedies,  the  Italian 
sonnets,  the  pastorals  of  Montemayor,  the  poems  of 
Ronsard ;  displaying  an  interest  in  science,  keeping  up 
an  exchange  of  letters  with  the  learned  Hubert  Languet ; 
and  withal  a  man  of  the  world,  a  favourite  of  Elizabeth, 
having  had  enacted  in  her  honour  a  flattering  and  comic 
pastoral ;  a  genuine  "  jewel  of  the  court ;"  a  judge,  like 

1  The  Maid  her  Metamorphosis. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  263 

d'TIrfe",  of  lofty  gallantry  and  fine  language ;  above  all, 
chivalrous  in  heart  and  deed,  who  wished  to  follow  mari- 
time adventure  with  Drake,  and,  to  crown  all,  fated 
to  die  an  early  and  heroic  death.  He  was  a  cavalry 
officer,  and  had  saved  the  English  army  at  Gravelines. 
Shortly  after,  mortally  wounded,  and  dying  of  thirst,  as 
some  water  was  brought  to  him,  he  saw  by  his  side  a 
soldier  still  more  desperately  hurt,  who  was  looking  at 
the  water  with  anguish  in  his  face :  "  Give  it  to  this 
man,"  said  he ;  "  his  necessity  is  still  greater  than  mine." 
Do  not  forget  the  vehemence  and  impetuosity  of  the 
middle-age ; — one  hand  ready  for  action,  and  kept  in- 
cessantly on  the  hilt  of  the  sword  or  poniard.  "  Mr. 
Molineux,"  wrote  he  to  his  father's  secretary,  "  if  ever 
I  know  you  to  do  so  much  as  read  any  letter  I  write  to 
my  father,  without  his  commandment  or  my  consent,  I ' 
will  thrust  my  dagger  into  you.  And  trust  to  it,  for  I 
speak  it  in  earnest."  It  was  the  same  man  who  said  to 
his  uncle's  adversaries  that  they  "  lied  in  their  throat ;" 
and  to  support  his  words,  promised  them  a  meeting  in 
three  months  in  any  place  in  Europe.  The  savage 
energy  of  the  preceding  age  remains  intact,  and  it  is  for 
this  reason  that  poetry  took  so  firm  a  hold  on  these 
virgin  souls.  The  human  harvest  is  never  so  fine  as 
when  cultivation  opens  up  a  new  soil.  Impassioned, 
moreover,  melancholy  and  solitary,  he  naturally  turned 
to  noble  and  ardent  fantasy ;  and  he  was  so  much  the 
poet,  that  he  had  no  need  of  verse. 

Shall  I  describe  his  pastoral  epic,  the  Arcadia  ?  It 
is  but  a  recreation,  a  sort  of  poetical  romance,  written 
in  the  country  for  the  amusement  of  his  sister ;  a  work 
of  fashion,  which,  like  Cyrus  and  CUlie^  is  not  a  monu- 

1  Two  French  novels  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.,  each  in  ten  volumes, 
and  written  by  Mademoiselle  de  Scudery. — TR. 


264  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

ment,  but  a  document.  This  kind  of  books  shows  only 
the  externals,  the  current  elegance  and  politeness,  the 
jargon  of  the  fashionable  world, — in  short,  that  which 
should  be  spoken  before  ladies ;  and  yet  we  perceive 
from  it  the  bent  of  the  public  opinion.  In  CUlie,  oratori- 
cal development,  delicate  and  collected  analysis,  the  flow- 
ing converse  of  men  seated  quietly  in  elegant  arm-chairs ; 
in  the  Arcadia,  fantastic  imagination,  excessive  senti- 
ment, a  medley  of  events  which  suited  men  scarcely 
recovered  from  barbarism.  Indeed,  in  London  they  still 
used  to  fire  pistols  at  each  other  in  the  streets;  and 
under  Henry  VIII.  and  his  children,  Queens,  a  Protector, 
the  highest  nobles,  knelt  under  the  axe  of  the  execu- 
tioner. Armed  and  perilous  existence  long  resisted  in 
Europe  the  establishment  of  peaceful  and  quiet  life. 
It  was  necessary  to  change  society  and  the  soil,  in  order 
to  transform  men  of  the  sword  into  citizens.  The  high 
roads  of  Louis  XIV.  and  his  regular  administration,  and 
more  recently  the  railroads  and  the  sergents  de  mile,  freed 
the  French  from  habits  of  violence  and  a  taste  for 
dangerous  adventure.  Eemember  that  at  this  period 
men's  heads  were  full  of  tragical  images.  Sidney's 
Arcadia  contains  enough  of  them  to  supply  half-a-dozen 
epics.  "It  is  a  trifle,"  says  the  author;  "my  young 
head  must  be  delivered."  In  the  first  twenty-five  pages 
you  meet  with  a  shipwreck,  an  account  of  pirates,  a 
half-drowned  prince  rescued  by  shepherds,  a  journey  in 
Arcadia,  various  disguises,  the  retreat  of  a  king  with- 
drawn into  solitude  with  his  wife  and  children,  the  de- 
liverance of  a  young  imprisoned  lord,  a  war  against  the 
Helots,  the  conclusion  of  peace,  and  many  other  things. 
Read  on,  and  you  will  find  princesses  shut  up  by  a 
wicked  fairy,  who  beats  them,  and  threatens  them  with 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  265 

death  if  they  refuse  to  many  her  son ;  a  beautiful  queen 
condemned  to  perish  by  fire  if  certain  knights  do  not 
come  to  her  succour;  a  treacherous  prince  tortured  for  his 
wicked  deeds,  then  cast  from  the  top  of  a  pyramid;  fights, 
surprises,  abductions,  travels :  in  short,  the  whole  pro- 
gramme of  the  most  romantic  tales.  That  is  the  serious 
element :  the  agreeable  is  of  a  like  nature ;  the  fantastic 
predominates.  Improbable  pastoral  serves,  as  in  Shaks- 
peare  or  Lope  de  Vega,  for  an  intermezzo  to  improbable 
tragedy.  You  are  always  coming  upon  dancing  shep- 
herds. They  are  very  courteous,  good  poets,  and  subtle 
metaphysicians.  Several  of  them  are  disguised  princes 
who  pay  their  court  to  the  princesses.  They  sing 
continually,  and  get  up  allegorical  dances;  two  bands 
approach,  servants  of  Eeason  and  Passion ;  their  hats, 
ribbons,  and  dress  are  described  in  full.  They  quarrel 
in  verse,  and  their  retorts,  which  follow  close  on  one 
another,  over-refined,  keep  up  a  tournament  of  wit. 
Who  cared  for  what  was  natural  or  possible  in  this  age  ? 
There  were  such  festivals  at  Elizabeth's  'progresses;' 
and  you  have  only  to  look  at  the  engravings  of  Sadeler, 
Martin  de  Vos,  and  Goltzius,  to  find  this  mixture  of 
sensitive  beauties  and  philosophical  enigmas.  The 
Countess  of  Pembroke  and  her  ladies  were  delighted  to 
picture  this  profusion  of  costumes  and  verses,  this  play 
beneath  the  trees.  They  had  eyes  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  senses  which  sought  satisfaction  in  poetry — the 
same  satisfaction  as  in  masquerading  and  painting. 
Man  was  not  yet  a  pure  reasoner ;  abstract  truth  was  not 
enough  for  him.  Eich  stuffs,  twisted  about  and  folded ; 
the  sun  to  shine  upon  them,  a  large  meadow  studded 
with  white  daisies;  ladies  in  brocaded  dresses,  with 
bare  arms,  crowns  on  their  heads,  instruments  of  music 


266  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

behind  the  trees, — this  is  what  the  reader  expects ;  he 
cares  nothing  for  contrasts;  he  will  readily  accept  a 
drawing-room  in  the  midst  of  the  fields. 

What  are  they  going  to  say  there  ?  Here  comes  out 
that  nervous  exaltation/in  all  its  folly,  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  spirit  of  the  age ;  love  rises  to  the  thirty- 
sixth  heaven.  Musidorus  is  the  brother  of  Celadon ; 
Pamela  is  closely  related  to  the  severe  heroines  of 
Astrde;1  all  the  Spanish  exaggerations  abound  and  all  the 
Spanish  falsehoods.  For  in  these  works  of  fashion  or  of 
the  Court,  primitive  sentiment  never  retains  its  since- 
rity :  wit,  the  necessity  to  please,  the  desire  for  effect,  of 
speaking  better  than  others,  alter  it,  influence  it,  heap  up 
embellishments  and  refinements,  so  that  nothing  is  left 
but  twaddle.  Musidorus  wished  to  give  Pamela  a  kiss. 
She  repels  him.  He  would  have  died  on  the  spot ;  but 
luckily  remembers  that  his  mistress  commanded  him  to 
leave  her,  and  finds  himself  still  able  to  obey  her 
command.  He  complains  to  the  trees,  weeps  in  verse : 
there  are  dialogues  where  Echo,  repeating  the  last  word, 
replies  ;  duets  in  rhyme,  balanced  stanzas,  in  which  the 
theory  of  love  is  minutely  detailed ;  in  short,  all  the 
grand  airs  of  ornamental  poetry.  If  they  send  a  letter 
to  their  mistress,  they  speak  to  it,  tell  the  ink : 
"  Therefore  mourne  boldly,  my  inke ;  for  while  shee 
lookes  upon  you,  your  blacknesse  will  shine :  cry  out 
boldly  my  lamentation;  for  while  shee  reades  you, 
your  cries  will  be  musicke."2 

Again,  two  young  princesses  are  going  to  bed : 
"  They  impoverished  their  clothes  to  enrich  their  bed, 

1  Celadon,  a  rustic  lover  in  AsMe,  a  French  novel  in  five  volumes, 
named  after  the  heroine,  and  written  hy  d'Urfe  (d.  1625). — TR. 
1  Arcadia,  ed.  fol.  1629,  p.  117. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  267 

which  for  that  night  might  well  scorne  the  shrine  of 
Venus ;  and  there  cherishing  one  another  with  deare, 
though  chaste  embracements ;  with  sweete,  though  cold 
kisses  ;  it  might  seeme  that  love  was  come  to  play  him 
there  without  dart,  or  that  wearie  of  his  owne  fires,  he 
was  there  to  refresh  himselfe  between  their  sweete 
breathing  lippes."1 

In  excuse  of  these  follies,  remember  that  they  have 
their  parallels  in  Shakspeare.  Try  rather  to  comprehend 
them,  to  imagine  them  in  their  place,  with  their  sur- 
roundings, such  as  they  are  ;  that  is,  as  the  excess  of 
singularity  and  inventive  fire.  Even  though  they  mar 
now  and  then  the  finest  ideas,  yet  a  natural  freshness 
pierces  through  the  disguise.  Take  another  example : 
"  In  the  time  that  the  morning  did  strew  roses  and 
violets  in  the  heavenly  floore  against  the  coming  of  the 
sun,  the  nightingales  (striving  one  with  the  other  which 
could  in  most  dainty  varietie  recount  their  wronge- 
caused  sorrow)  made  them  put  off  their  sleep." 

In  Sidney's  second  work,  The  Defence  of  Poesie,  we 
meet  with  genuine  imagination,  a  sincere  and  Serious 
tone,  a  grand,  commanding  style,  all  the  passion  and 
elevation  which  he  carries  in  his  heart  and  puts  into  his 
verse.  He  is  a  muser,  a  Platonist,  who  is  penetrated 
by  the  doctrines  of  the  ancients,  who  takes  things  from 
a  lofty  point  of  view,  who  places  the  excellence  of  poetry 
not  in  pleasing  effect,  imitation,  or  rhyme,  but  in  that 
creative  and  superior  conception  by  which  the  artist 
creates  anew  and  embellishes  nature.  At  the  same  time, 
he  is  an  ardent  man,  trusting  in  the  nobleness  of  his 
aspirations  and  in  the  width  of  his  ideas,  who  puts  down 
the  brawling  of  the  shoppy,  narrow,  vulgar  Puritanism, 

1  Arcadia,  ed.  fol.  1629,  book  ii.  p.  114. 


268  THE  KENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

and  glows  with  the  lofty  irony,  the  proud  freedom,  of  a 
poet  and  a  lord. 

In  his  eyes,  if  there  is  any  art  or  science  capable  of 
augmenting  and  cultivating  our  generosity,  it  is  poetry. 
He  draws  comparison  after  comparison  between  it  and 
philosophy  or  history,  whose  pretensions  he  laughs  at 
and  dismisses.1  He  fights  for  poetry  as  a  knight  for 
his  lady,  and  in  what  heroic  and  splendid  style  !  He 
says :  "  I  never  heard  the  old  Song  of  Percie  and 
Douglas,  that  I  found  not  my  heart  moved  more  than 
with  a  trumpet :  and  yet  it  is  sung  but  by  some  blinde 
Crowder,  with  no  rougher  voyce,  than  rude  stile  ;  which 
beeing  so  evill  apparelled  in  the  dust  and  Cobweb  of  that 
uncivill  age,  what  would  it  work,  trimmed  in  the  gorge- 
ous eloquence  of  Pindare?"2 

The  philosopher  repels,  the  poet  attracts :  "  Nay  hee 
doth  as  if  your  journey  should  lye  through  a  faire  vine- 
yard, at  the  very  first,  give  you  a  cluster  of  grapes,  that 
full  of  that  taste,  you  may  long  to  passe  further." 3 

What  description  of  poetry  can  displease  you  ?  Not 
pastoral  so  easy  and  genial  ?  "  Is  it  the  bitter  but  whole- 
some lambicke,  who  rubbes  the  galled  minde,  making 
shame  the  Trumpet  of  villanie,  with  bold  and  open  cry- 
ing out  against  naughtinesse  ? " 4 

At  the  close  he  reviews  his  arguments,  and  the 
vibrating  martial  accent  of  his  poetical  period  is  like  a 
trump  of  victory :  "  So  that  since  the  excellencies  of  it 
(poetry)  may  bee  so  easily  and  so  justly  confirmed,  and 

1  The  Defence  of  Poesie,  ed.  fol.  1629,  p.  558 :  "I  dare  undertake, 
that  Orlando  Furioso,  or  honest  King  Arthur,  will  never  displease  a 
soldier  :  but  the  quidditie  of  Ens  and  prima  materia,  will  hardly  agree 
with  a  Corselet."  See  also,  in  the  same  book,  the  very  lively  and  spirited 
personification  of  History  and  Philosophy,  full  of  genuine  talent. 

*  Ibid.  p.  553.  8  Ibid.  p.  550.  *  Ibid.  p.  552. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  269 

the  low-creeping  objections  so  soone  trodden  downe,  it 
not  being  an  Art  of  lyes,  but  of  time  doctrine;  not  of 
elfeminatenesse,  but  of  notable  stirring  of  courage ;  not 
of  abusing  man's  wit,  but  of  strengtlming  man's  wit ;  not 
banished,  but  honoured  by  Plato;  let  us  rather  plant 
more  Laurels  for  to  ingarland  the  Poets  heads  than 
suffer  the  ill-savoured  breath  of  such  wrong  speakers, 
once  to  blow  upon  the  cleare  springs  of  Poesie." : 

From  such  vehemence  and  gravity  you  may  anticipate 
what  his  verses  will  be. 

Often,  after  reading  the  poets  of  this  age,  I  have 
looked  for  some  time  at  the  contemporary  prints,  telling 
myself  that  man,  in  mind  and  body,  was  not  then  such 
as  we  see  him  to-day.  We  also  have  our  passions,  but 
we  are  no  longer  strong  enough  to  bear  them.  They 
unsettle  us ;  we  are  no  longer  poets  without  suffering 
for  it.  Alfred  cle  Musset,  Heine,  Edgar  Poe,  Burns, 
Byron,  Shelley,  Cowper,  how  many  shall  I  instance? 
Disgust,  mental  and  bodily  degradation,  disease,  impo- 
tence, madness,  suicide,  at  best  a  permanent  hallucina- 
tion or  feverish  raving, — these  are  nowadays  the  ordi- 
nary issues  of  the  poetic  temperament.  The  passion 
of  the  brain  gnaws  our  vitals,  dries  up  the  blood,  eats 
into  the  marrow,  shakes  us  like  a  tempest,  and  the 
human  frame,  such  as  civilisation  has  made  us,  is  not 
substantial  enough  long  to  resist  it.  They,  who  have 
been  more  roughly  trained,  who  are  more  inured  to  the 
inclemencies  of  climate,  more  hardened  by  bodily  exer- 
cise, more  firm  against  danger,  endure  and  live.  Is 

1  The  Defence  of  Poesie,  p.  560.  Here  and  there  we  find  also  vecso 
as  spirited  as  this  : 

"Or  Pindar's  Apes,  flaunt  they  in  phrases  fine, 
Enam'ling  with  pied  flowers  their  thoughts  of  gold." — P.  568. 


270  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

there  a  man  living  who  could  withstand  the  storm  of 
passions  and  visions  which  swept  over  Shakspeare,  and 
end,  like  him,  as  a  sensible  citizen  and  landed  proprietor 
in  his  small  county  ?  The  muscles  were  firmer,  despair 
less  prompt.  The  rage  of  concentrated  attention,  the 
half  hallucinations,  the  anguish  and  heaving  of  the  breast, 
the  quivering  of  the  limbs  bracing  themselves  involun- 
tarily and  blindly  for  action,  all  the  painful  yearnings 
which  accompany  grand  desires,  exhausted  them  less ; 
this  is  why  they  desired  longer,  and  dared  more. 
D'Aubignd,  wounded  with  many  sword-thrusts,  conceiv- 
ing death  at  hand,  had  himself  bound  on  his  horse  that  he 
might  see  his  mistress  once  more,  and  rode  thus  several 
leagues,  losing  blood  all  the  way,  and  arriving  in  a  swoon. 
Such  feelings  we  glean  still  from  their  portraits,  in  the 
straight  looks  which  pierce  like  a  sword ;  in  that  strength 
of  back,  bent  or  twisted;  in  the  sensuality,  energy, 
enthusiasm,  which  breathe  from  their  attitude  or  look. 
Such  feelings  we  still  discover  in  their  poetry,  in  Greene, 
Lodge,  Jonson,  Spenser,  Shakspeare,  in  Sidney,  as  in  all 
the  rest.  We  quickly  forget  the  faults  of  taste  which 
accompany  them,  the  affectation,  the  uncouth  jargon. 
Is  it  really  so  uncouth  ?  Imagine  a  man  who  with 
closed  eyes  distinctly  sees  the  adored  countenance  of 
his  mistress,  who  keeps  it  before  him  all  the  day ;  who 
is  troubled  and  shaken  as  he  imagines  ever  and  anon 
her  brow,  her  lips,  her  eyes ;  who  cannot  and  will  not 
be  separated  from  his  vision ;  who  sinks  daily  deeper 
in  this  passionate  contemplation ;  who  is  every  instant 
crushed  by  mortal  anxieties,  or  transported  by  the 
raptures  of  bliss :  he  will  lose  the  exact  conception  of 
objects.  A  fixed  idea  becomes  a  false  idea.  By  dint 
of  regarding  an  object  under  all  its  forms,  turning  it 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  371 

over,  piercing  through  it,  we  at  last  deform  it.  When 
we  cannot  think  of  a  thing  without  being  dazed  and 
without  tears,  we  magnify  it,  and  give  it  a  character 
which  it  has  not.  Hence  strange  comparisons,  over- 
refined  ideas,  excessive  images,  become  natural.  How- 
ever far  Sidney  goes,  whatever  object  he  touches,  he 
sees  throughout  the  universe  only  the  name  and  features 
of  Stella.  All  ideas  bring  him  back  to  her.  He  is 
drawn  ever  and  invincibly  by  the  same  thought :  and 
comparisons  which  seem  far-fetched,  only  express  the 
unfailing  presence  and  sovereign  power  of  the  besetting 
image.  Stella  is  ill ;  it  seems  to  Sidney  that  "  Joy, 
which  is  inseparate  from  those  eyes,  Stella,  now  learnes 
(strange  case)  to  weepe  in  thee." l  To  us,  the  expression 
is  absurd.  Is  it  so  for  Sidney,  who  for  hours  together 
had  dwelt  on  the  expression  of  those  eyes,  seeing  in 
them  at  last  all  the  beauties  of  heaven  and  earth,  who, 
compared  to  them,  finds  all  light  dull  and  all  happiness 
stale  ?  Consider  that  in  every  extreme  passion  ordinary 
laws  are  reversed,  that  our  logic  cannot  pass  judgment 
on  it,  that  we  find  in  it  affectation,  childishness,  witti- 
cisms, crudity,  folly,  and  that  to  us  violent  conditions 
of  the  nervous  machine  are  like  an  unknown  and 
marvellous  land,  where  common  sense  and  good  language 
cannot  penetrate.  On  the  return  of  spring,  when  May 
spreads  over  the  fields  her  dappled  dress  of  new  flowers, 
Astrophel  and  Stella  sit  in  the  shade  of  a  retired  grove, 
in  the  warm  air,  full  of  birds'  voices  and  pleasant 
exhalations.  Heaven  smiles,  the  wind  kisses  the 
trembling  leaves,  the  inclining  trees  interlace  theii 
sappy  branches,  amorous  earth  swallows  greedily  the 
rippling  water : 

1  Astrophel  and  Stella,  ed.  fol.  1629,  101st  sonnet,  p.  618. 


272  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

"  In  a  grove  most  rich  of  shade, 
Where  birds  wanton  musicke  made, 
May,  then  yong,  his  py'd  weeds  showing, 
New  perfum'd  with  flowers  fresh  growing, 

"  Astrophel  with  Stella  sweet, 
Did  for  mutuall  comfort  meet, 
Both  within  themselves  oppressed, 
But  each  in  the  other  blessed.  .  .  . 

"  Their  eares  hungry  of  each  word, 
Which  the  deere  tongue  would  afford, 
But  their  tongues  restrain'd  from  walking, 
Till  their  hearts  had  ended  talking. 

"  But  when  their  tongues  could  not  speake, 
Love  it  selfe  did  silence  breake ; 
Love  did  set  his  lips  asunder, 
Thus  to  speake  in  love  and  wonder.  .  .  . 

"  This  small  winde  which  so  sweet  is, 
See  how  it  the  leaves  doth  kisse, 
Each  tree  in  his  best  attyring, 
Sense  of  love  to  love  inspiring."  l 

On  his  knees,  with  beating  heart,  oppressed,  it  seems  to 
him  that  his  mistress  becomes  transformed ; 

"  Stella,  soveraigne  of  my  joy,  .  .  . 
Stella,  starre  of  heavenly  fire, 
Stella,  load-starre  of  desire, 
Stella,  in  whose  shining  eyes 
Are  the  lights  of  Cupid's  skies.  .  .  . 
Stella,  whose  voice  when  it  speakea 
Senses  all  asunder  breakes ; 
Stella,  whose  voice  when  it  singeth, 
Angels  to  acquaintance  bringeth."  2 

1  Attrophel  and  Stella  (1629),  8th  song,  p.  603.  »  Ibid.  604, 


V-I.    P-272. 


BEN    JONSON 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  273 

These  cries  of  adoration  are  like  a  hymn.  Every  day 
he  writes  thoughts  of  love  which  agitate  him,  and  in 
this  long  journal  of  a  hundred  pages  we  feel  the 
heated  breath  swell  each  moment.  A  smile  from  his 
mistress,  a  curl  lifted  by  the  wind,  a  gesture, — all  are 
events.  He  paints  her  in  every  attitude ;  he  cannot 
see  her  too  constantly.  He  talks  to  the  birds,  plants, 
winds,  all  nature.  He  brings  the  whole  world  to 
Stella's  feet.  At  the  notion  of  a  kiss  he  swoons  : 

"  Thinke  of  that  most  gratefull  time 
When  thy  leaping  heart  will  climbe, 
In  my  lips  to  have  his  biding. 

There  those  roses  for  to  kisse, 

Which  doe  breath  a  sugred  blisse, 
Opening  rubies,  pearles  dividing." l 

"  0  joy,  too  high  for  my  low  stile  to  show : 
0  blisse,  fit  for  a  nobler  state  then  me : 
En  vie,  put  out  thine  eyes,  lest  thou  do  see 

What  Oceans  of  delight  in  me  do  flow. 

My  friend,  that  oft  saw  through  all  maskes  my  wo, 
Come,  come,  and  let  me  powre  my  selfe  on  thee  j 
Gone  is  the  winter  of  my  miserie, 

My  spring  appeares,  0  see  what  here  doth  grow, 

For  Stella  hath  with  words  where  faith  doth  shine, 
Of  her  high  heart  giv'n  me  the  monarchic  : 

I,  I,  0  I  may  say  that  she  is  mine."  2 

There  are  Oriental  splendours  in  the  dazzling  sonnet  in 
which  he  asks  why  Stella's  cheeks  have  grown  pale : 

"  Where  be  those  Roses  gone,  which  sweetned  so  our  eyes  ? 
Where  those  red  cheekes,  which  oft  with  faire  encrease  doth 
frame 

1  Astrophel  and  Stella,  10th  song,  p.  610.       *  Ibid,  sonnet  69,  p.  555. 
VOL.  L  T 


274  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

The  height  of  honour  in  the  kindly  badge  of  shame  1 

Who  hath  the  crimson  weeds  stolne  from  my  morning  skies  1 l 

As  he  says,  his  "  life  melts  with  too  much  thinking." 
Exhausted  by  ecstasy,  he  pauses ;  then  he  flies  from 
thought  to  thought,  seeking  relief  for  his  wound,  like 
the  Satyr  whom  he  describes : 

"  Prometheus,  when  first  from  heaven  hie 
He  brought  downe  fire,  ere  then  on  earth  not  scene, 
Fond  of  delight,  a  Satyr  standing  by 
Gave  it  a  kisse,  as  it  like  sweet  had  beene. 

"  Feeling  forthwith  the  other  burning  power, 
Wood  with  the  smart  with  showts  and  shryking  shrill, 
He  sought  his  ease  in  river,  field,  and  bower, 
But  for  the  time  his  griefe  went  with  him  still"  2 

At  last  calm  returned ;  and  whilst  this  calm  lasts,  the 
lively,  glowing  spirit  plays  like  a  nickering  flame  on  the 
surface  of  the  deep  brooding  fire.  His  love-songs  and 
word-portraits,  delightful  pagan  and  chivalric  fancies, 
seeni  to  be  inspired  by  Petrarch  or  Plato.  We  feel  the 
charm  and  sportiveness  under  the  seeming  affectation : 

"  Faire  eyes,  sweete  lips,  deare  heart,  that  foolish  I 
Could  hope  by  Cupids  helpe  on  you  to  pray ; 
Since  to  himselfe  he  doth  your  gifts  apply, 
As  his  maine  force,  choise  sport,  and  easefull  stray. 

"  For  when  he  will  see  who  dare  him  gainsay, 
Then  with  those  eyes  he  lookes,  lo  by  and  by 
Each  soule  doth  at  Loves  feet  his  weapons  lay, 
Glad  if  for  her  he  give  them  leave  to  die. 

1  Astrophel  and  Stella,  sonnet  102,  p.  614. 

*  Ibid.  p.  525  :  this  sonnet  is  headed  E.  D.  Wood,  in  his  Athen. 
Oxon.  L,  says  it  was  written  by  Sir  Edward  Dyer,  Chancellor  of  the 
Most  noble  Order  of  the  Garter.— TR. 


CHAP.  L          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  275 

"  When  he  will  play,  then  in  her  lips  he  is, 
Where  blushing  red,  that  Loves  selfe  them  doth  love, 
With  either  lip  he  doth  the  other  kisse  : 
But  when  he  will  for  quiets  sake  remove 
From  all  the  world,  her  heart  is  then  his  rome, 
Where  well  he  knowes,  no  man  to  him  can  come." ' 

Both  heart  and  sense  are  captive  here.  If  he  finds  the 
eyes  of  Stella  more  beautiful  than  anything  in  the  world, 
he  finds  her  soul  more  lovely  than  her  "body.  He  is  a 
Platonist  when  he  recounts  how  Virtue,  wishing  to  be 
loved  of  men,  took  Stella's  form  to  enchant  their  eyes, 
and  make  them  see  the  heaven  which  the  inner  sense 
reveals  to  heroic  souls.  We  recognise  in  him  that 
entire  submission  of  heart,  love  turned  into  a  religion, 
perfect  passion  which  asks  only  to  grow,  and  which,  like 
the  piety  of  the  mystics,  finds  itself  always  too  insignifi- 
cant when  it  compares  itself  with  the  object  loved : 

"  My  youth  doth  waste,  my  knowledge  brings  forth  toyes,  . 
My  wit  doth  strive  those  passions  to  defend, 
Which  for  reward  spoyle  it  with  vaine  annoyes, 
I  see  my  course  to  lose  my  selfe  doth  bend  : 
I  see  and  yet  no  greater  sorrow  take, 
Than  that  I  lose  no  more  for  Stella's  sake."  2 

At  last,  like  Socrates  in  the  banquet,  he  turns  his  eyes 
to  deathless  beauty,  heavenly  brightness  : 

"  Leave  me,  0  Love,  which  reachest  but  to  dust, 
And  thou  my  minde  aspire  to  higher  things  : 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust : 
Whatever  fades,  but  fading  pleasure  brings.  .  .  . 
0  take  fast  hold,  let  that  light  be  thy  guide, 
In  this  small  course  which  birth  drawes  out  to  death."  3 

1  Astrophel  and  Stella,  sonnet  43,  p.  545. 
'  Hid.  sonnet  18,  p.  573.  *  Last  sonnet,  p.  539. 


276  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n 

Divine  love  continues  the  earthly  love;  he  was  im- 
prisoned in  this,  and  frees  himself.  By  this  nobility, 
these  lofty  aspirations,  recognise  one  of  those  serious 
souls  of  which  there  are  so  many  in  the  same  climate 
and  race.  Spiritual  instincts  pierce  through  the 
dominant  paganism,  and  ere  they  make  Christians, 
make  Platonists. 

V. 

Sidney  was  only  a  soldier  in  an  army ;  there  is  a 
multitude  about  him,  a  multitude  of  poets.  In  fifty- 
two  years,  without  counting  the  drama,  two  hundred  and 
thirty-three  are  enumerated,1  of  whom  forty  have  genius 
or  talent :  Breton,  Donne,  Drayton,  Lodge,  Greene,  the 
two  Fletchers,  Beaumont,  Spenser,  Shakspeare,  Ben 
Jonson,  Marlowe,  Wither,  Warner,  Davison,  Carew, 
Suckling,  Herrick ; — we  should  grow  tired  in  counting 
them.  There  is  a  crop  of  them,  and  so  there  is  at  the 
same  time  in  Catholic  and  heroic  Spain ;  and  as  in  Spain 
it  was  a  sign  of  the  times,  the  mark  of  a  public  want, 
the  index  to  an  extraordinary  and  transient  condition  of 
the  mind.  What  is  this  condition  which  gives  rise  to 
so  universal  a  taste  for  poetry?  What  is  it  breathes 
life  into  their  books  ?  How  happens  it,  that  amongst 
the  least,  in  spite  of  pedantries,  awkwardnesses,  in  the 
rhyming  chronicles  or  descriptive  cyclopedias,  we  meet 
with  brilliant  pictures  and  genuine  love-cries?  How 
happens  it,  that  when  this  generation  was  exhausted, 
true  poetry  ended  in  England,  as  true  painting  in  Italy 
and  Flanders  ?  It  was  because  an  epoch  of  the  mind 
came  and  passed  away, — that,  namely,  of  instinctive  and 

1  Nathan  Drake,  Shakspeare  and  his  Times,  i.  Part  2,  ch.  2,  3,  4. 
Among  these  233  poets  the  authors  of  isolated  pieces  are  not  reckoned, 
but  only  those  who  published  or  collected  their  works. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  277 

creative  conception.  These  men  had  new  senses,  and 
no  theories  in  their  heads.  Thus,  when  they  took  a 
walk,  their  emotions  were  not  the  same  as  ours. 
What  is  sunrise  to  an  ordinary  man?  A  white 
smudge  on  the  edge  of  the  sky,  between  bosses  of 
clouds,  amid  pieces  of  land,  and  bits  of  road,  which 
he  does  not  see  because  he  has  seen  them  a  hundred 
times.  But  for  them,  all  things  have  a  soul ;  I  mean 
that  they  feel  within  themselves,  indirectly,  the  up- 
rising and  severance  of  the  outlines,  the  power  and 
contrast  of  tints,  the  sad  or  delicious  sentiment,  which 
breathes  from  this  combination  and  union  like  a  harmony 
or  a  cry.  How  sorrowful  is  the  sun,  as  he  rises  in  a 
mist  above  the  sad  sea-furrows ;  what  an  air  of  resigna- 
tion in  the  old  trees  rustling  in  the  night  rain ;  what  a 
feverish  tumult  in  the  mass  of  waves,  whose  dishevelled 
locks  are  twisted  for  ever  on  the  surface  of  the  abyss ! 
But  the  great  torch  of  heaven,  the  luminous  god, 
emerges  and  shines;  the  tall,  soft,  pliant  herbs,  the 
evergreen  meadows,  the  expanding  roof  of  lofty  oaks, — 
the  whole  English  landscape,  continually  renewed  and 
illumined  by  the  flooding  moisture,  diffuses  an  inex- 
haustible freshness.  These  meadows,  red  and  white 
with  flowers,  ever  moist  and  ever  young,  slip  off  their 
veil  of  golden  mist,  and  appear  suddenly,  timidly,  like 
beautiful  virgins.  Here  is  the  cuckoo-flower,  which 
springs  up  before  the  coming  of  the  swallow  ;  there  the 
hare-bell,  blue  as  the  veins  of  a  woman ;  the  marigold, 
which  sets  with  the  sun,  and,  weeping,  rises  with  him. 
Drayton,  in  his  Polyolbion,  sings 
"  Then  from  her  burnisht  gate  the  goodly  glittring  East 
Guilds  every  lofty  top,  which  late  the  humorous  Night 
Bespangled  had  with  pearle,  to  please  the  Mornings  sight  j 


278  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

On  which  the  mirthfull  Quires,  with  their  cleere  open  throats, 
Unto  the  joyfull  Morne  so  straine  their  warbling  notes, 
That  Hills  and  Valleys  ring,  and  eveu  the  ecchoing  Ayre 
Seemes  all  compos'd  of  sounds,  about  them  everywhere.  .  .  . 
Thus  sing  away  the  Morne,  untill  the  mounting  Sunne, 
Through  thick  exhaled  fogs,  his  golden  head  hath  runne, 
And  through  the  twisted  tops  of  our  close  Covert  creeps, 
To  kiss  the  gentle  Shade,  this  while  that  sweetly  sleeps."1 

A  step  further,  and  you  will  find  the  old  gods  reappear. 
They  reappear,  these  living  gods — these  living  gods 
mingled  with  things  which  you  cannot  help  meeting  as 
soon  as  you  meet  nature  again.  Shakspeare,  in  the 
Tempest,  sings : 

"  Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady  thy  rich  leas 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  pease ; 
Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep, 
And  flat  meads  thatch'd  with  stover,  them  to  keep ; 
Thy  banks  with  peoned  and  lilied  brims, 
Which  spongy  April  at  thy  hest  betrims, 
To  make  cold  nymphs  chaste  crowns  .  .  . 
Hail,  many-colour'd  messenger  (Iris.)  .  .  . 
Who,  with  thy  saffron  wings,  upon  my  flowers 
Diffusest  honey-drops,  refreshing  showers, 
And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  bosky  acres  and  my  unshrubb'd  down."  2 

In  Cymbeline  he  says  : 

"  They  are  as  gentle  as  zephyrs,  blowing  below  the  violet, 
Not  wagging  his  sweet  head."3 

Greene  writes : 

"  When  Flora,  proud  in  pomp  of  all  her  flowers, 
Sat  bright  and  gay, 

1  M.  Drayton's  Polyolbion,  ed.  1622,  13th  song,  p.  214, 
*  Act  iv.  1.  a  Act  iv.  2. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  279 

And  gloried  in  the  dew  of  Iris'  showers, 

And  did  display 
Her  mantle  chequered  all  with  gaudy  green." l 

The  same  author  also  says : 

"  How  oft  have  I  descending  Titan  seen, 
His  burning  locks  couch  in  the  sea-queen's  lap; 
And  beauteous  Thetis  his  red  body  wrap 
In  watery  robes,  as  he  her  lord  had  been  1 "  * 

So  Spenser,  in  his  Faerie  Queene,  sings : 

"  The  ioyous  day  gan  early  to  appeare ; 
And  fayre  Aurora  from  the  deawy  bed 
Of  aged  Tithone  gan  herselfe  to  reare 
With  rosy  cheekes,  for  shame  as  blushing  red : 
Her  golden  locks,  for  hast,  were  loosely  shed 
About  her  eares,  when  Una  her  did  marke 
Clymbe  to  her  charet,  all  with  flowers  spred, 
From  heven  high  to  chace  the  chearelesse  darke  ; 
With  mery  note  her  lowd  salutes  the  mounting  larke."  3 

All  the  splendour  and  sweetness  of  this  moist  and  well  • 
watered  land;  all  the  specialties,  the  opulence  of  its 
dissolving  tints,  of  its  variable  sky,  its  luxuriant  vege- 
tation, assemble  thus  about  the  gods,  who  gave  them 
their  beautiful  form. 

In  the  life  of  every  man  there  are  moments  when,  in 
presence  of  objects,  he  experiences  a  shock.  This  mass 
of  ideas,  of  mangled  recollections,  of  mutilated  images, 
which  lie  hidden  in  all  corners  of  his  mind,  are  set  in 
motion,  organised,  suddenly  developed  like  a  flower. 
He  is  enraptured ;  he  cannot  help  looking  at  and  admir- 

1  Greene's  Poems,  ed.  Bell,  Eurymachiis  in  Laudem.  MirimidcE,  p.  73. 

8  Ibid.  Mdicertus'  description  of  his  Mistress,  p.  38. 
'  Spenser's  Works,  ed.  Todd,  1863,  The  Faerie  Queene,  I  c.  11,  st  51. 


280  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

ing  the  charming  creature  which  has  just  appeared ;  he 
wishes  to  see  it  again,  and  others  like  it,  and  dreams  of 
nothing  else.  There  are  such  moments  in  the  life  of 
nations,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  They  are  happy  in 
contemplating  beautiful  things,  and  wish  only  that  they 
should  be  the  most  beautiful  possible.  They  are  not  pre- 
occupied, as  we  are,  with  theories.  They  do  not  excite 
themselves  to  express  moral  or  philosophical  ideas.  They 
wish  to  enjoy  through  the  imagination,  through  the  eyes, 
like  those  Italian  nobles,  who,  at  the  same  time,  were 
so  captivated  by  fine  colours  and  forms,  that  they 
covered  with  paintings  not  only  their  rooms  and  their 
churches,  but  the  lids  of  their  chests  and  the  saddles  of 
their  horses.  The  rich  and  green  sunny  country;  young, 
gaily-attired  ladies,  blooming  with  health  and  love;  half- 
draped  gods  and  goddesses,  masterpieces  and  models  of 
strength  and  grace, — these  are  the  most  lovely  objects 
which  man  can  contemplate,  the  most  capable  of  satisfy- 
ing his  senses  and  his  heart — of  giving  rise  to  smiles 
and  joy;  and  these  are  the  objects  which  occur  in 
all  the  poets  in  a  most  wonderful  abundance  of  songs, 
pastorals,  sonnets,  little  fugitive  pieces,  so  lively,  delicate, 
easily  unfolded,  that  we  have  never  since  had  their 
equals.  What  though  Venus  and  Cupid  have  lost  their 
altars  ?  Like  the  contemporary  painters  of  Italy,  they 
willingly  imagine  a  beautiful  naked  child,  drawn  on  a 
chariot  of  gold  through  the  limpid  air;  or  a  woman, 
redolent  with  youth,  standing  on  the  waves,  which  kiss 
her  snowy  feet.  Harsh  Ben  Jonson  is  ravished  with 
the  scene.  The  disciplined  battalion  of  his  sturdy 
verses  changes  into  a  band  of  little  graceful  strophes, 
which  trip  as  lightly  as  Eaphael's  children.  He  sees 
his  lady  approach,  sitting  on  the  chariot  of  Love,  drawn 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  281 

by  swans  and  doves.  Love  leads  the  car;  she  passes 
calm  and  smiling,  and  all  hearts,  charmed  by  her  divine 
looks,  wish  no  other  joy  than  to  see  and  serve  her  for  ever. 

"  See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  lady  rideth  ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 
Unto  her  beauty ; 

And,  enamoured,  do  wish,  so  they  might 
But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would  ride. 
Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth  !  .  .  . 
Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow, 

Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow, 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  1 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver  1 

Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  brier  ? 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  1 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
0  so  white  !  0  so  soft !  0  so  sweet  is  she  1 " 1 

What  can  be  more  lively,  more  unlike  measured  and 
artificial  mythology  ?  Like  Theocritus  and  Moschus, 
they  play  with  their  smiling  gods,  and  their  belief 
becomes  a  festival  One  day,  in  an  alcove  of  a  wood, 
Cupid  meets  a  nymph  asleep : 

1  Ben  Jonson'a    Poems,  ed.  R.  Bell.      Celebration  of  Chart*;  her 
Triumph,  p.  125. 


282  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

"  Her  golden  hair  o'erspread  her  face, 

Her  careless  arms  abroad  were  cast, 
Her  quiver  had  her  pillow's  placed, 
Her  breast  lay  bare  to  every  blast." l 

He  approaches  softly,  steals  her  arrows,  and  puts  his 
own  in  their  place.  She  hears  a  noise  at  last,  raises 
her  reclining  head,  and  sees  a  shepherd  approaching. 
She  flees ;  he  pursues.  She  bends  her  bow,  and  shoots 
her  arrows  at  him.  He  only  becomes  more  ardent,  and 
is  on  the  point  of  seizing  her.  In  despair,  she  takes  an 
arrow,  and  buries  it  in  her  lovely  body.  Lo !  she  is 
changed,  she  stops,  smiles,  loves,  draws  near  him. 

"  Though  mountains  meet  not,  lovers  may. 
What  other  lovers  do,  did  they. 
The  god  of  Love  sat  on  a  tree, 
And  laught  that  pleasant  sight  to  see." 2 

A  drop  of  archness  falls  into  the  medley  of  artlessness 
and  voluptuous  charm ;  it  was  so  in  Longus,  and  in  all 
that  delicious  nosegay  called  the  Anthology.  Not  the 
dry  mocking  of  Voltaire,  of  folks  who  possessed  only 
wit,  and  always  lived  in  a  drawing-room;  but  the 
raillery  of  artists,  lovers  whose  brain  is  full  of  colour 
and  form,  who,  when  they  recount  a  bit  of  roguishness, 
imagine  a  stooping  neck,  lowered  eyes,  the  blushing  of 
vermilion  cheeks.  One  of  these  fair  ones  says  the  fol- 
lowing verses,  simpering,  and  we  can  even  see  now  the 
pouting  of  her  lips : 

"  Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee 
Doth  suck  his  sweet. 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 
Now  with  his  feet. 

'   OupuPs  Pastime,  unknown  author,  ab.  1621.          8  Ibid. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  283 

Within  my  eyes  he  makes  his  rest, 
His  bed  amid  my  tender  breast, 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast. 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest. 
Ah  !  wanton,  will  ye  ! " ' 

What  relieves  these  sportive  pieces  is  their  splendour 
of  imagination.  There  are  effects  and  flashes  which  we 
hardly  dare  quote,  dazzling  and  maddening,  as  in  the 
Song  of  Songs : 

"  Her  eyea,  fair  eyes,  like  to  the  purest  lights 
That  animate  the  sun,  or  cheer  the  day ; 
In  whom  the  shining  sunbeams  brightly  play, 
Whiles  fancy  doth  on  them  divine  delights. 

"  Her  cheeks  like  ripened  lilies  steeped  in  wine, 
Or  fair  pomegranate  kernels  washed  in  milk, 
Or  snow-white  threads  in  nets  of  crimson  silk, 
Or  gorgeous  clouds  upon  the  sun's  decline. 

"  Her  lips  are  roses  over-washed  with  dew, 
Or  like  the  purple  of  Narcissus'  flower  .  .  . 

"  Her  crystal  chin  like  to  the  purest  mould, 
Enchased  with  dainty  daisies  soft  and  white, 
Where  fancy's  fair  pavilion  once  is  pight, 
Whereas  embraced  his  beauties  he  doth  hold. 

"  Her  neck  like  to  an  ivory  shining  tower, 
Where  through  with  azure  veins  sweet  nectar  runs, 
Or  like  the  down  of  swans  where  Senesse  woous, 
Or  like  delight  that  doth  itself  devour. 

"  Her  paps  are  like  fair  apples  in  the  prime, 
As  round  as  orient  pearls,  as  soft  as  down ; 
They  never  vail  their  fair  through  winter's  frown, 
But  from  their  sweets  love  sucked  his  summer  time."  2 

1  Rosalind's  Madrigal. 
3  Greene's  Poems,  ed.  R.  Bell,  Menaphon's  Eclogue,  p.  41. 


284  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n 

"  What  need  compare,  where  sweet  exceeds  compare  1 
Who  draws  his  thoughts  of  love  from  senseless  things, 
Their  pomp  and  greatest  glories  doth  impair, 
And  mounts  love's  heaven  with  overladen  wings." l 

I  can  well  believe  that  things  had  no  more  beauty 
then  than  now;  but  I  am  sure  that  men  found  them 
more  beautiful. 

When  the  power  of  embellishment  is  so  great,  it  is 
natural  that  they  should  paint  the  sentiment  which 
unites  all  joys,  whither  all  dreams  converge, — ideal  love, 
and  in  particular,  artless  and  happy  love.  Of  all 
sentiments,  there  is  none  for  which  we  have  more 
sympathy.  It  is  of  all  the  most  simple  and  sweet 
It  is  the  first  motion  of  the  heart,  and  the  first  word 
of  nature.  It  is  made  up  of  innocence  and  self-aban- 
donment. It  is  clear  of  reflection  and  effort.  It 
extricates  us  from  complicated  passion,  contempt,  regret, 
hate,  violent  desires.  It  penetrates  us,  and  we  breathe 
it  as  the  fresh  breath  of  the  morning  wind,  which  has 
swept  over  flowery  meads.  The  knights  of  this  peri- 
lous court  inhaled  it,  and  were  enraptured,  and  so 
rested  in  the  contrast  from  their  actions  and  their 
dangers.  The  most  severe  and  tragic  of  their  poets 
turned  aside  to  meet  it,  Shakspeare  among  the  evergreen 
oaks  of  the  forest  of  Arden,2  Ben  Jonson  in  the  woods 
of  Sherwood,3  amid  the  wide  shady  glades,  the  shining 
leaves  and  moist  flowers,  trembling  on  the  margin  of 
lonely  springs.  Marlowe  himself,  the  terrible  painter 
of  the  agony  of  Edward  II.,  the  impressive  and  powerful 
poet,  who  wrote  Faustus,  Tamerlane,  and  the  Jew  of 

1  Greene's  Poems,  Jfelicertus'  Eclogue,  p.  43.         2  As  you  Like  it. 
3  The  Sad  Shepherd.     See  also  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  The  Faith,- 
ful  Shepherdess. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  285 

Malta,  leaves  his  sanguinary  dramas,  his  high-sounding 
verse,  his  images  of  fury,  and  nothing  can  be  more 
musical  and  sweet  than  his  song.  A  shepherd,  to  gair> 
his  lady-love,  says  to  her : 

"  Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield. 
There  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 
There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 
A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull, 
Fair  lindd  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 
A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love.  .  .  . 
The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May-morning  : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love"  1 

1  This  poem  was,  and  still  is,  frequently  attributed  to  Shakspeare. 
It  appears  as  his  in  Knight's  edition,  published  a  few  years  ago.     Isaac 
Walton,  however,   writing  about  fifty  years  after  Marlowe's  death, 
attributes  it  to  him.     In  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  it  is  also  ascribed 
to  the  same  author.     As  a  confirmation,  let  us  state  that  Ithamore,  in 
Marlowe's  Jew  of  Malta,  sa)Ts  to  the  courtesan  (Act  iv.  Sc.  4)  : 
"  Thou  in  those  groves,  by  Dis  above, 
Shalt  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love." — TK. 


286  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

The  unpolished  gentlemen  of  the  period,  returning  from 
hawking,  were  more  than  once  arrested  by  such  rustic 
pictures ;  such  as  they  were,  that  is  to  say,  imaginative 
and  not  very  citizen-like,  they  had  dreamed  of  figuring 
in  them  on  their  own  account.  But  while  entering  into, 
they  reconstructed  them;  they  reconstructed  them  in 
their  parks,  prepared  for  Queen  Elizabeth's  entrance,  with 
a  profusion  of  costumes  and  devices,  not  troubling  them- 
selves to  copy  rough  nature  exactly.  Improbability 
did  not  disturb  them ;  they  were  not  minute  imitators, 
students  of  manners  :  they  created ;  the  country  for  them 
was  but  a  setting,  and  the  complete  picture  came  from 
their  fancies  and  their  hearts.  Eomantic  it  may  have 
been,  even  impossible,  but  it  was  on  this  account  the 
more  charming.  Is  there  a  greater  charm  than  putting 
on  one  side  this  actual  world  which  fetters  or  oppresses 
us,  to  float  vaguely  and  easily  in  the  azure  and  the 
light,  on  the  summit  of  the  cloud-capped  land  of  fairies, 
to  arrange  things  according  to  the  pleasure  of  the 
moment,  no  longer  feeling  the  oppressive  laws,  the 
harsh  and  resisting  framework  of  life,  adorning  and 
varying  everything  after  the  caprice  and  the  refinements 
of  fancy  ?  That  is  what  is  done  in  these  little  poems. 
Usually  the  events  are  such  as  happen  nowhere,  or 
happen  in  the  land  where  kings  turn  shepherds  and 
marry  shepherdesses.  The  beautiful  Argentile1  is  de- 
tained at  the  court  of  her  uncle,  who  wishes  to  deprive 
her  of  her  kingdom,  and  commands  her  to  marry  Curan, 
a  boor  in  his  service ;  she  flees,  and  Curan  in  despair 
goes  and  lives  two  years  among  the  shepherds.  One 
day  he  meets  a  beautiful  country-woman,  and  loves  her ; 

1  Chalmers'  English  Poets,  William  Warner,  Fourth  Book  of  Albion's 
England,  ch.  xz.  p.  551. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  287 

gradually,  while  speaking  to  her,  he  thinks  of  Argentile, 
and  weeps ;  he  describes  her  sweet  face,  her  lithe  figure, 
her  blue-veined  delicate  wrists,  and  suddenly  sees  that 
the  peasant  girl  is  weeping,  She  falls  into  his  arms, 
and  says,  "  I  am  Argentile."  Now  Curan  was  a  king's 
son,  who  had  disguised  himself  thus  for  love  of  Argen- 
tile. He  resumes  his  armour,  and  defeats  the  wicked 
king.  There  never  was  a  braver  knight;  and  they 
both  reigned  long  in  Northumberland.  From  a  hundred 
such  tales,  tales  of  the  spring-time,  the  reader  will 
perhaps  bear  with  me  while  I  pick  out  one  more,  gay 
and  simple  as  a  May  morning.  The  Princess  Dowsabel 
came  down  one  morning  into  her  father's  garden ;  she 
gathers  honeysuckles,  primroses,  violets,  and  daisies ; 
then,  behind  a  hedge,  she  heard  a  shepherd  singing, 
and  that  so  finely  that  she  loved  him  at  once.  He 
promises  to  be  faithful,  and  asks  for  a  kiss.  Her  cheeks 
became  as  crimson  as  a  rose : 

"  With  that  she  bent  her  snow  white  knee, 
Down  by  the  shepherd  kneeled  she, 

And  him  she  sweetly  kiss'd. 
With  that  the  shepherd  whoop'd  for  joy ; 
Quoth  he  :  '  There's  never  shepherd's  boy 

That  ever  was  so  blest.' " 1 

Nothing  more ;  is  it  not  enough  ?  It  is  but  a  moment's 
fancy;  but  they  had  such  fancies  every  moment. 
Think  what  poetry  was  likely  to  spring  from  them, 
how  superior  to  common  events,  how  free  from  literal 
imitation,  how  smitten  with  ideal  beauty,  how  capable 
of  creating  a  world  beyond  our  sad  world.  In  fact, 
among  all  these  poems  there  is  one  truly  divine,  so 

1  Chalmers  English  Poets,  M.  Drayton's  Fourth  Eclogue,  iv.  p.  436. 


288  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

divine  that  the  reasoners  of  succeeding  ages  have  found 
it  wearisome,  that  even  now  but  few  understand  it — 
Spenser's  Faerie  Queene. 

One  day  Monsieur  Jourdain,  having  turned  Mama- 
mouchi1  and  learned  orthography,  sent  for  the  most 
illustrious  writers  of  the  age.  He  settled  himself  in 
his  arm-chair,  pointed  with  his  finger  at  several  folding- 
stools  for  them  to  sit  down,  and  said : 

"  I  have  read  your  little  productions,  gentlemen.  They  have 
afforded  me  much  pleasure.  I  wish  to  give  you  some  work  to 
do.  I  have  given  some  lately  to  little  Lulli,1  your  fellow- 
labourer.  It  was  at  my  command  that  he  introduced  the  sea- 
shell  at  his  concerts, — a  melodious  instrument,  which  no  one 
thought  of  before,  and  which  has  such  a  pleasing  effect.  I  insist 
that  you  will  work  out  my  ideas  as  he  has  worked  them  out,  and 
I  give  you  an  order  for  a  poem  in  prose.  What  is  not  prose,  you 
know,  is  verse ;  and  what  is  not  verse,  is  prose.  When  I  say, 
'  Nicolle,  bring  me  my  slippers  and  give  me  my  nightcap,'  I  speak 
prose.  Take  this  sentence  as  your  model.  This  style  is  much 
more  pleasing  than  the  jargon  of  unfinished  lines  which  you  call 
verse.  As  for  the  subject,  let  it  be  myself.  You  will  describe 
my  flowered  dressing-gown  which  I  have  put  on  to  receive  you 
in,  and  this  little  green  velvet  undress  which  I  wear  underneath, 
to  do  my  morning  exercise  in.  You  will  set  down  that  this 
chintz  costs  a  louis  an  ell.  The  description,  if  well  worked  out 
will  furnish  some  very  pretty  paragraphs,  and  will  enlighten  the 
public  as  to  the  cost  of  things.  I  desire  also  that  you  should 
speak  of  my  mirrors,  my  carpets,  my  hangings.  My  tradesmen 
will  let  you  have  their  bills ;  don't  fail  to  put  them  in.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  read  in  your  works,  all  fully  and  naturally  set  forth, 
about  my  father's  shop,  who,  like  a  real  gentleman,  sold  cloth  to 

1  Mons.  Jourdain  is  the  hero  of  Moliere's  comedy,  Le  Bourgeois 
Gentilhomme,  the  type  of  a  vulgar  and  successful  upstart ;  Mamamouchi 
is  a  mock  title. — TB. 

3  Lulli,  a  celebrated  Italian  composer  of  the  time  of  Moliere. — TB. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  289 

oblige  his  friends ;  my  maid  Nicolle's  kitchen,  the  genteel  be- 
haviour of  Brusquet,  the  little  dog  of  my  neighbour  M.  Dimanche. 
You  might  also  explain  my  domestic  affairs  :  there  is  nothing 
more  interesting  to  the  public  than  to  hear  how  a  million  may 
be  scraped  together.  Tell  them  also  that  my  daughter  Lucile 
has  not  married  that  little  rascal  Cle'oute,  but  M.  Samuel  Bernard, 
who  made  his  fortune  as  a  fermier-g&ieral,  keeps  his  carriage  and 
is  going  to  be  a  minister  of  state.  For  this  I  will  pay  you  liber- 
ally, half-a-louis  for  a  yard  of  writing.  Come  back  in  a  month, 
and  let  me  see  what  my  ideas  have  suggested  to  you." 

We  are  the  descendants  of  M.  Jourdain,  and  this  is 
how  we  have  heen  talking  to  the  men  of  genius  from 
the  beginning  of  the  century,  and  the  men  of  genius 
have  listened  to  us.  Hence  arise  our  shoppy  and 
realistic  novels.  I  pray  the  reader  to  forget  them,  to 
forget  himself,  to  become  for  a  while  a  poet,  a  gentle- 
man, a  man  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Unless  we  bury 
the  M.  Jourdain  who  survives  in  us,  we  shall  never 
understand  Spenser. 

VI. 

Spenser  belonged  to  an  ancient  family,  allied  to 
great  houses ;  was  a  friend  of  Sidney  and  Ealeigh,  the 
two  most  accomplished  knights  of  the  age — a  knight 
himself,  at  least  in  heart ;  who  had  found  in  his  con- 
nections, his  friendships,  his  studies,  his  life,  everything 
calculated  to  lead  him  to  ideal  poetry.  We  find  him 
at  Cambridge,  where  he  imbues  himself  with  the  noblest 
ancient  philosophies ;  in  a  northern  country,  where  he 
passes  through  a  deep  and  unfortunate  passion;  at 
Penshurst,  in  the  castle  and  in  the  society  where  the 
Arcadia  was  produced  ;  with  Sidney,  in  whom  survived 
entire  the  romantic  poetry  and  heroic  generosity  of  the 

VOL  L  XI 


290  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

feudal  spirit ;  at  court,  where  all  the  splendours  of  a 
disciplined  and  gorgeous  chivalry  were  gathered  about 
the  throne ;  finally,  at  Kilcolman,  on  the  borders  of  a 
beautiful  lake,  in  a  lonely  castle,  from  which  the  view 
embraced  an  amphitheatre  of  mountains,  and  the  half 
of  Ireland.  Poor  on  the  other  hand,1  not  fit  for  court, 
and  though  favoured  by  the  queen,  unable  to  obtain 
from  his  patrons  anything  but  inferior  employment ; 
in  the  end,  wearied  of  solicitations,  and  banished  to 
his  dangerous  property  in  Ireland,  whence  a  rebellion 
expelled  him,  after  his  house  and  child  had  been  burned ; 
he  died  three  months  later,  of  misery  and  a  broken 
heart.2  Expectations  and  rebuffs,  many  sorrows  and 
many  dreams,  some  few  joys,  and  a  sudden  and  fright- 
ful calamity,  a  small  fortune  and  a  premature  end ; 
this  indeed  was  a  poet's  life.  But  the  heart  within 
was  the  true  poet — from  it  all  proceeded;  circum- 
stances furnished  the  subject  only;  he  transformed 
them  more  than  they  him ;  he  received  less  than  he 
gave.  Philosophy  and  landscapes,  ceremonies  and 
ornaments,  splendours  of  the  country  and  the  court,  on 
all  which  he  painted  or  thought,  he  impressed  his 
inward  nobleness.  Above  all,  his  was  a  soul  captivated 
by  sublime  and  chaste  beauty,  eminently  platonic ;  one 
of  these  lofty  and  refined  souls  most  charming  of  all, 
who,  born  in  the  lap  of  nature,  draw  thence  their 
sustenance,  but  soar  higher,  enter  the  regions  of  mysti- 
cism, and  mount  instinctively  in  order  to  expand  on  the 
confines  of  a  loftier  world.  Spenser  leads  us  to  Milton, 

1  It  is  very  doubtful  whether  Spenser  was  so  poor  as  he  is  generally 
believed  to  have  been. — TR. 

a  "  He  died  for  want  of  bread,  in  King  Street."    Ben  Jonson, 
quoted  by  Dmmmond. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  291 

and  thence  to  Puritanism,  as  Plato  to  Virgil,  and  thencer 
to  Christianity.  Sensuous  beauty  is  perfect  in  both, 
but  their  main  worship  is  for  moral  beauty.  He 
appeals  to  the  Muses : 

"  Revele  to  me  the  sacred  nourseiy 
Of  vertue,  which  with  you  doth  there  remaine, 
Where  it  in  silver  howre  does  hidden  ly 
From  view  of  men  and  wicked  worlds  disdaine  ! " 

He  encourages  his  knight  when  he  sees  him  droop. 
He  is  wroth  when  he  sees  him  attacked.  He  rejoices 
in  his  justice,  temperance,  courtesy.  He  introduces  in 
the  beginning  of  a  song,  long  stanzas  in  honour  of 
friendship  and  justice.  He  pauses,  after  relating  a 
lovely  instance  of  chastity,  to  exhort  women  to  modesty. 
He  pours  out  the  wealth  of  his  respect  and  tenderness 
at  the  feet  of  his  heroines.  If  any  coarse  man  insults 
them,  he  calls  to  their  aid  nature  and  the  gods.  Never 
does  he  bring  them  on  his  stage  without  adorning  their 
name  with  splendid  eulogy.  He  has  an  adoration  for 
beauty  worthy  of  Dante  and  Plotinus.  And  this, 
because  he  never  considers  it  a  mere  harmony  of  colour 
and  form,  but  an  emanation  of  unique,  heavenly,  im- 
perishable beauty,  which  no  mortal  eye  can  see,  and 
which  is  the  masterpiece  of  the  great  Author  of  the 
worlds.1  Bodies  only  render  it  visible;  it  does  not 
live  in  them ;  charm  and  attraction  are  not  in  things, 
but  in  the  immortal  idea  which  shines  through  them : 

"  For  that  same  goodly  hew  of  white  and  red, 
With  which  the  cheekes  are  sprinckled,  shall  decay, 
And  those  sweete  rosy  leaves,  so  fairly  spred 
Upon  the  lips,  shall  fade  and  fall  away 
To  that  they  were,  even  to  corrupted  clay : 
1  Hymns  of  Love  and  Beauty  ;  of  heavenly  Love  and  Beauty. 


292  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  u. 

•  That  golden  wyre,  those  sparckling  stars  so  bright, 

Shall  turne  to  dust,  and  lose  their  goodly  light. 
But  that  faire  lainpe,  from  whose  celestiall  ray 
That  light  proceedes,  which  kindleth  lovers  fire, 
Shall  never  be  extinguisht  nor  decay ; 
But,  when  the  vitall  spirits  doe  expyre, 
Upon  her  native  planet  shall  retyre ; 
For  it  is  heavenly  borne,  and  cannot  die, 
Being  a  parcell  of  the  purest  skie." l 

In  presence  of  this  ideal  of  beauty,  love  is  transformed : 

"  For  Love  is  lord  of  Truth  and  Loialtie, 
Lifting  himself  out  of  the  lowly  dust, 
On  golden  plumes  up  to  the  purest  skie, 
Above  the  reach  of  loathly  sinfull  lust, 
Whose  base  affect  through  cowardly  distrust 
Of  his  weake  wings  dare  not  to  heaven  fly, 
But  like  a  moldwarpe  in  the  earth  doth  ly."  2 

Love  such  as  this  contains  all  that  is  good,  and  fine, 
and  noble.  It  is  the  prime  source  of  life,  and  the 
eternal  soul  of  things.  It  is  this  love  which,  pacifying 
the  primitive  discord,  has  created  the  harmony  of  the 
spheres,  and  maintains  this  glorious  universe.  It  dwells 
in  God,  and  is  God  Himself,  come  down  in  bodily  form 
to  regenerate  the  tottering  world  and  save  the  human 
race ;  around  and  within  animated  beings,  when  our 
eyes  can  pierce  outward  appearances,  we  behold  it  as  a 
living  light,  penetrating  and  embracing  every  creature. 
We  touch  here  the  sublime  sharp  summit  where  the 
world  of  mind  and  the  world  of  sense  unite ;  where 
man,  gathering  with  both  hands  the  loveliest  flowers 
of  either,  feels  himself  at  the  same  time  a  pagan  and  a 
Christian. 

1  A  Hymne  in  Honour  of  Btautie,  1.  92-105. 
*  A  Hymne  in  Honour  of  Love,  L  176-182. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  293 

So  much,  as  a  testimony  to  his  heart.     But  he  was 
also   a  poet,  that  is,  pre-eminently  a  creator  and   a 
dreamer,  and  that  most  naturally,  instinctively,  unceas- 
ingly.    We  might  go  on  for  ever  describing  this  inward 
condition  of  all  great  artists ;  there  would  still  remain 
much  to  be  described.     It  is  a  sort  of  mental  growth 
with  them ;  at  every  instant  a  bud  shoots  forth,  and  on 
this  another  and  still  another ;  each  producing,  increas- 
ing, blooming  of  itself,  so  that  after  a  few  moments  we 
find  first  a  green  plant  crop  up,  then  a  thicket,  then  a 
forest.     A  character  appears  to  them,  then  an  action, 
then  a  landscape,  then  a  succession  of  actions,  characters, 
landscapes,  producing,  completing,  arranging  themselves 
by  instinctive  development,  as  when  in  a  dream  we 
behold  a  train  of  figures  which,  without  any  outward 
compulsion,  display  and  group  themselves  before  our 
eyes.     This  fount  of  living  and  changing  forms  is  in- 
exhaustible in  Spenser ;  he  is  always  imaging ;  it  is  his 
specialty.     He  has  but  to  close  his  eyes,  and  apparitions 
arise ;  they  abound  in  him,  crowd,  overflow ;  in  vain  he 
pours   them  forth ;    they  continually  float   up,  more 
copious  and  more  dense.     Many  times,  following  the 
inexhaustible  stream,  I  have  thought  of  the  vapours 
which  rise  incessantly  from  the  sea,  ascend,  sparkle, 
commingle  their  golden  and  snowy  scrolls,  while  under- 
neath them  new  mists  arise,  and  others  again  beneath, 
and  the  splendid  procession  never  grows  dim  or  ceases. 
But  what  distinguishes  him  from  all  others  is  the 
mode  of  his  imagination.     Generally  with  a  poet  his 
mind  ferments  vehemently  and  by  fits  and  starts ;  hia 
ideas  gather,  jostle   each   other,   suddenly   appear    in 
masses  and  heaps,  and  burst  forth  in  sharp,  piercing, 
concentrative  words ;  it  seems  that   they  need   these 


294  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n, 

sudden  accumulations  to  imitate  the  unity  and  life-like 
energy  of  the  objects  which  they  reproduce;  at  least 
almost  all  the  poets  of  that  time,  Shakspeare  at  their 
head,  act  thus.  Spenser  remains  calm  in  the  fervour 
of  invention.  The  visions  which  would  be  fever  to 
another,  leave  him  at  peace.  They  come  and  unfold 
themselves  before  him,  easily,  entire,  uninterrupted, 
without  starts.  He  is  epic,  that  is,  a  narrator,  not  a 
singer  like  an  ode-writer,  nor  a  mimic  like  a  play-writer. 
No  modern  is  more  like  Homer.  Like  Homer  and  the 
great  epic- writers,  he  only  presents  consecutive  and  noble, 
almost  classical  images,  so  nearly  ideas,  that  the  mind 
seizes  them  unaided  and  unawares.  Like  Homer,  he  is 
always  simple  and  clear :  he  makes  no  leaps,  he  omits 
no  argument,  he  robs  no  word  of  its  primitive  and 
ordinary  meaning,  he  preserves  the  natural  sequence  of 
ideas.  Like  Homer  again,  he  is  redundant,  ingenuous, 
even  childish.  He  says  everything,  he  puts  down  re- 
flections which  we  have  made  beforehand ;  he  repeats 
without  limit  his  grand  ornamental  epithets.  We  can 
see  that  he  beholds  objects  in  a  beautiful  uniform  light, 
with  infinite  detail ;  that  he  wishes  to  show  all  this 
detail,  never  fearing  to  see  his  happy  dream  change  or 
disappear ;  that  he  traces  its  outline  with  a  regular 
movement,  never  hurrying  or  slackening.  He  is  even 
a  little  prolix,  too  unmindful  of  the  public,  too  ready  to 
lose  himself  and  dream  about  the  things  he  beholds. 
His  thought  expands  in  vast  repeated  comparisons,  like 
those  of  the  old  Ionic  poet.  If  a  wounded  giant  falls, 
he  finds  him 

"  As  an  aged  tree, 

High  growing  on  the  top  of  rocky  clift, 
Whose  hart-strings  with  keene  eteele  nigh  he  wen  be, 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  295 

The  mightie  trunck  halfe  rent  with  ragged  rift, 

Doth  roll  adowne  the  rocks,  and  fall  with  fearefull  drift 

Or  as  a  castle,  reared  high  and  round, 
By  subtile  engins  and  malitious  slight 
Is  undermined  from  the  lowest  ground, 
And  her  foundation  forst,  and  feebled  quight, 
At  last  downe  falles ;  and  with  her  heaped  hight 
Her  hastie  mine  does  more  heavie  make, 
And  yields  it  selfe  unto  the  victours  might : 
Such  was  this  Gyaunt's  fall,  that  seemd  to  shake 
The  stedfast  globe  of  earth,  as  it  for  feare  did  quake." ' 

He  develops  all  the  ideas  which  he  handles.  All  his 
phrases  become  periods.  Instead  of  compressing,  he 
expands.  To  bear  this  ample  thought  and  its  accom- 
panying train,  he  requires  a  long  stanza,  ever  renewed, 
long  alternate  verses,  reiterated  rhymes,  whose  uniform- 
ity and  fulness  recall  the  majestic  sounds  which  undulate 
eternally  through  the  woods  and  the  fields.  To  unfold 
these  epic  faculties,  and  to  display  them  in  the  sublime 
region  where  his  soul  is  naturally  borne,  he  requires  an 
ideal  stage,  situated  beyond  the  bounds  of  reality,  with 
personages  who  could  hardly  exist,  and  in  a  world  which 
could  never  be. 

He  made  many  miscellaneous  attempts  in  sonnets, 
elegies,  pastorals,  hymns  of  love,  little  sparkling  word 
pictures  ;2  they  were  but  essays,  incapable  for  the  most 
part  of  supporting  his  genius.  Yet  already  his  magni- 
ficent imagination  appeared  in  them ;  gods,  men, 
landscapes,  the  world  which  he  sets  in  motion  is  a 

1  The  Fagrie  Queene,  i.  c.  8,  st.  22,  23. 

2  The  Shepherd's  Calendar,  Amoretti,  Sonnets,  Prothalamion,  Epi- 
ihalamion,  Muiopotmos,  Virgil's  Gnat,  The  Ruines  of  Time,  The  Tearts 
of  the  Miises,  etc. 


296  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

thousand  miles  from  that  in  which  we  live.  His  Shep- 
herds Calendar a  is  a  thought-inspiring  and  tender  pas- 
toral, full  of  delicate  loves,  noble  sorrows,  lofty  ideas, 
where  no  voice  is  heard  but  of  thinkers  and  poets.  His 
Visions  of  Petrarch  and  Du  Bellay  are  admirable  dreams, 
in  which  palaces,  temples  of  gold,  splendid  landscapes, 
sparkling  rivers,  marvellous  birds,  appear  in  close  suc- 
cession as  in  an  Oriental  fairy-tale.  If  he  sings  a 
"  Prothalamion,"  he  sees  two  beautiful  swans,  white  as 
snow,  who  come  softly  swimming  down  amidst  the 
songs  of  nymphs  and  vermeil  roses,  while  the  trans- 
parent water  kisses  their  silken  feathers,  and  murmurs 
with  joy : 

"  There,  in  a  meadow,  by  the  river's  side. 
A  flocke  of  Nymphes  I  chaunced  to  espy, 
All  lovely  daughters  of  the  Flood  thereby, 
With  goodly  greenish  locks,  all  loose  untyde, 
As  each  had  bene  a  bryde ; 
And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket, 
Made  of  fine  twigs,  entrayled  curiously, 
In  which  they  gathered  flowers  to  fill  their  flasket, 
And  with  fine  fingers  cropt  full  feateously 
The  tender  stalkes  on  hye. 
Of  every  sort,  which  in  that  meadow  grew, 
They  gathered  some ;  the  violet,  pallid  blew, 
The  little  dazie,  that  at  evening  closes, 
The  virgin  lillie,  and  the  primrose  trew, 
With  store  of  vermeil  roses, 
To  deck  their  bridegroomes  posies 
Against  the  brydale-day,  which  was  not  long  : 

Sweet  Themmes  !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

1  Published  in  1589  ;  dedicated  to  Philip  Sidney. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  297 

With  that  I  saw  two  Swannes  of  goodly  hewe 

Come  softly  swimming  downe  along  the  lee  ; 

Two  fairer  birds  I  yet  did  never  see ; 

The  snow,  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strew, 

Did  never  whiter  shew  .  .  . 

So  purely  white  they  were, 

That  even  the  gentle  stream,  the  which  them  bare, 

Seem'd  foule  to  them,  and  bad  his  billowes  spare 

To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  least  they  might 

Soyle  their  fayre  plumes  with  water  not  so  fayre, 

And  marre  their  beauties  bright, 

That  shone  as  heavens  light, 

Against  their  brydale  day,  which  was  not  long  : 

Sweet  Themmes  !  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  song  ! " l 

If  he  bewails  the  death  of  Sidney,  Sidney  becomes  a 
shepherd ;  he  is  slain  like  Adonis ;  around  him  gather 
weeping  nymphs : 

"  The  gods,  which  all  things  see,  this  same  beheld, 
And,  pittying  this  paire  of  lovers  trew, 
Transformed  them  there  lying  on  the  field, 
Into  one  flowre  that  is  both  red  and  blew : 
It  first  growes  red,  and  then  to  blew  doth  fade, 
Like  Astrophel,  which  thereinto  was  made. 

And  in  the  midst  thereof  a  star  appeares, 

As  fairly  formd  as  any  star  in  skyes : 

Resembling  Stella  in  her  freshest  yeares, 

Forth  darting  beames  of  beautie  from  her  eyes ; 

And  all  the  day  it  standeth  full  of  deow, 

Which  is  the  teares,  that  from  her  eyes  did  flow."2 

His  most  genuine  sentiments  become  thus  fairy-like. 
Magic  is  the  mould  of  his  mind,  and  impresses  its  shape 

1  Prothalamion,  I.  19-54.  s  Astrophel,  1.  181-192. 


298  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

on  all  that  he  imagines  or  thinks.  Involuntarily  he 
robs  objects  of  their  ordinary  form.  If  he  looks  at  a 
landscape,  after  an  instant  he  sees  it  quite  differently. 
He  carries  it,  unconsciously,  into  an  enchanted  land; 
the  azure  heaven  sparkles  like  a  canopy  of  diamonds, 
meadows  are  clothed  with  flowers,  a  biped  population 
flutters  in  the  balmy  air,  palaces  of  jasper  shine  among 
the  trees,  radiant  ladies  appear  on  carved  balconies  above 
galleries  of  emerald.  This  unconscious  toil  of  mind  is 
like  the  slow  crystallisations  of  nature.  A  moist  twig 
is  cast  into  the  bottom  of  a  mine,  and  is  brought  out 
again  a  hoop  of  diamonds. 

At  last  he  finds  a  subject  which  suits  him,  the 
greatest  joy  permitted  to  an  artist.  He  removes  his 
epic,  from  the  common  ground  which,  in  the  hands  of 
Homer  and  Dante,  gave  expression  to  a  living  creed, 
and  depicted  national  heroes.  He  leads  us  to  the 
summit  of  fairy-land,  soaring  above  history,  on  that 
extreme  verge  where  objects  vanish  and  pure  idealism 
begins :  "  I  have  undertaken  a  work,"  he  says,  "  to 
represent  all  the  moral  vertues,  assigning  to  every  vertue 
a  knight  to  be  the  patron  and  defender  of  the  same  ;  in 
whose  actions  and  feats  of  armes  and  chivalry  the 
operations  of  that  vertue,  whereof  he  is  the  protector, 
are  to  be  expressed,  and  the  vices  and  unruly  appetites 
that  oppose  themselves  against  the  same,  to  be  beaten 
downe  and  overcome."  l  In  fact,  he  gives  us  an  allegory 
as  the  foundation  of  his  poem,  not  that  he  dreams  of 
becoming  a  wit,  a  preacher  of  moralities,  a  propounder 
of  riddles.  He  does  not  subordinate  image  to  idea ;  he 
is  a  seer,  not  a  philosopher.  They  are  living  men  and 

1  Words  attributed  to  him  by  Lodowick  Bryskett,  Discourse  of  Civil 
Life,  ed.  1606,  p.  26. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  299 

actions  which  he  sets  in  motion ;  only  from  time  to 
time,  in  his  poem,  enchanted  palaces,  a  whole  train  of 
splendid  visions  trembles  and  divides  like  a  mist,  en- 
abling us  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  thought  which  raised 
and  arranged  it.  When  in  his  Garden  of  Adonis  we 
see  the  countless  forms  of  all  living  things  arranged  in 
due  order,  in  close  compass,  awaiting  life,  we  conceive 
with  him  the  birth  of  universal  love,  the  ceaseless 
fertility  of  the  great  mother,  the  mysterious  swarm  of 
creatures  which  rise  in  succession  from  her  "  wide  wombe 
of  the  world."  When  we  see  his  Knight  of  the  Cross 
combating  with  a  horrible  woman-serpent  in  defence  of 
his  beloved  lady  Una,  we  dimly  remember  that,  if  we 
search  beyond  these  two  figures,  we  shall  find  behind  one, 
Truth,  behind  the  other,  Falsehood.  We  perceive  that 
his  characters  are  not  flesh  and  blood,  and  that  all 
these  brilliant  phantoms  are  phantoms,  and  nothing  more. 
We  take  pleasure  in  their  brilliancy,  without  believing 
in  their  substantiality ;  we  are  interested  in  their  doings, 
without  troubling  ourselves  about  their  misfortunes. 
We  know  that  their  tears  and  cries  are  not  real.  Our 
emotion  is  purified  and  raised.  We  do  not  fall  into 
gross  illusion ;  we  have  that  gentle  feeling  of  knowing 
ourselves  to  be  dreaming.  We,  like  him,  are  a  thousand 
leagues  from  actual  life,  beyond  the  pangs  of  painful 
pity,  unmixed  terror,  violent  and  bitter  hatred.  We 
entertain  only  refined  sentiments,  partly  formed,  arrested 
at  the  very  moment  they  were  about  to  affect  us  with 
too  sharp  a  stroke.  They  slightly  touch  us,  and  we 
find  ourselves  happy  in  being  extricated  from  a  belief 
which  was  beginning  to  be  oppressive. 


300  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

VII. 

What  world  could  furnish  materials  to  so  elevated  a 
fancy  ?  One  only,  that  of  chivalry ;  for  none  is  so  far 
from  the  actual.  Alone  and  independent  in  his  oastle, 
freed  from  all  the  ties  which  society,  family,  toil, 
usually  impose  on  the  actions  of  men,  the  feudal  hero 
had  attempted  every  kind  of  adventure,  but  yet  he 
had  done  less  than  he  imagined ;  the  boldness  of  his 
deeds  had  been  exceeded  by  the  madness  of  his  dreams. 
For  want  of  useful  employment  and  an  accepted  rule, 
his  brain  had  laboured  on  an  unreasoning  and  impossible 
track,  and  the  urgency  of  his  wearisomeness  had  in- 
creased beyond  measure  his  craving  for  excitement. 
Under  this  stimulus  his  poetry  had  become  a  world 
of  imagery.  Insensibly  strange  conceptions  had  grown 
and  multiplied  in  his  brains,  one  over  the  other,  like 
ivy  woven  round  a  tree,  and  the  original  trunk  had 
disappeared  beneath  their  rank  growth  and  their  ob- 
struction. The  delicate  fancies  of  the  old  Welsh  poetry, 
the  grand  ruins  of  the  German  epics,  the  marvellous 
splendours  of  the  conquered  East,  all  the  recollections 
which  four  centuries  of  adventure  had  scattered  among 
the  minds  of  men,  had  become  gathered  into  one  great 
dream ;  and  giants,  dwarfs,  monsters,  the  whole  medley 
of  imaginary  creatures,  of  superhuman  exploits  and 
splendid  follies,  were  grouped  around  a  unique  con- 
ception, exalted  and  sublime  love,  like  courtiers  pro- 
strated at  the  feet  of  their  king.  It  was  an  ample  and 
buoyant  subject-matter,  from  which  the  great  artists 
of  the  age,  Ariosto,  Tasso,  Cervantes,  Rabelais,  had 
hewn  their  poems.  But  they  belonged  too  completely 
to  their  own  time,  to  admit  of  their  belonging  to  one 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  301 

which  had  passed.1  They  created  a  chivalry  afresh, 
but  it  was  not  genuine.  The  ingenious  Ariosto,  an 
ironical  epicurean,  delights  his  gaze  with  it,  and  grows 
merry  over  it,  like  a  man  of  pleasure,  a  sceptic  who 
rejoices  doubly  in  his  pleasure,  because  it  is  sweet,  and 
because  it  is  forbidden.  By  his  side  poor  Tasso, 
inspired  by  a  fanatical,  revived,  factitious  Catholicism, 
amid  the  tinsel  of  an  old  school  of  poetry,  works  on  the 
same  subject,  in  sickly  fashion,  with  great  effort  and 
scant  success.  Cervantes,  himself  a  knight,  albeit  he 
loves  chivalry  for  its  nobleness,  perceives  its  folly,  and 
crushes  it  to  the  ground,  with  heavy  blows,  in  the 
mishaps  of  the  wayside  inns.  More  coarsely,  more 
openly,  Rabelais,  a  rude  commoner,  drowns  it  with  a 
burst  of  laughter,  in  his  merriment  and  nastiness. 
Spenser  alone  takes  it  seriously  and  naturally.  He  is 
on  the  level  of  so  much  nobleness,  dignity,  reverie.  He 
is  not  yet  settled  and  shut  in  by  that  species  of  exact 
common  sense  which  was  to  found  and  cramp  the  whole 
modern  civilisation.  In  his  heart  he  inhabits  the 
poetic  and  shadowy  land  from  which  men  were  daily 
drawing  further  and  further  away.  He  is  enamoured 
of  it,  even  to  its  very  language ;  he  revives  the  old 
words,  the  expressions  of  the  middle-age,  the  style 
of  Chaucer,  especially  in  the  Shepherds  Calendar.  He 
enters  straightway  upon  the  strangest  dreams  of  the 
old  story-tellers,  without  astonishment,  like  a  man 
who  has  still  stranger  dreams  of  his  own.  En- 
chanted castles,  monsters  and  giants,  duels  in  the 
woods,  wandering  ladies,  all  spring  up  under  his  hands, 
the  mediaeval  fancy  with  the  mediaeval  generosity; 

1  Ariosto,  1474-1533.      Tasso,  1544-1595.      Cervantes,   1547-1616. 
Rabelais,  1483-1553. 


302  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  11. 

and  it  is  just  because  this  world  is  unreal  that  it  so 
suits  his  humour. 

Is  there  in  chivalry  sufficient  to  furnish  him  with 
matter  ?  That  is  but  one  world,  and  he  has  another. 
Beyond  the  valiant  men,  the  glorified  images  of  moral 
virtues,  he  has  the  gods,  finished  models  of  sensible 
beauty ;  beyond  Christian  chivalry  he  has  the  pagan 
Olympus;  beyond  the  idea  of  heroic  will  which  can 
only  be  satisfied  by  adventures  and  danger,  there  exists 
calm  energy,  which,  by  its  own  impulse,  is  in  harmony 
with  actual  existence.  For  such  a  poet  one  ideal  is 
not  enough ;  beside  the  beauty  of  effort  he  places  the 
beauty  of  happiness;  he  couples  them,  not  deliberately 
as  a  philosopher,  nor  with  the  design  of  a  scholar  like 
Goethe,  but  because  they  are  both  lovely;  and  here 
and  there,  amid  armour  and  passages  of  arms,  he 
distributes  satyrs,  nymphs,  Diana,  Venus,  like  Greek 
statues  amid  the  turrets  and  lofty  trees  of  an  English 
park.  There  is  nothing  forced  in  the  union ;  the  ideal 
epic,  like  a  superior  heaven,  receives  and  harmonises 
the  two  worlds ;  a  beautiful  pagan  dream  carries  on  a 
beautiful  dream  of  chivalry;  the  link  consists  in  the 
fact  that  they  are  both  beautiful.  At  this  elevation 
the  poet  has  ceased  to  observe  the  differences  of  races 
and  civilisations.  He  can  introduce  into  his  picture 
whatever  he  will ;  his  only  reason  is,  "  That  suited ;" 
and  there  could  be  no  better.  Under  the  glossy-leaved 
oaks,  by  the  old  trunk  so  deeply  rooted  in  the  ground, 
he  can  see  two  knights  cleaving  each  other,  and  the  next 
instant  a  company  of  Fauns  who  came  there  to  dance. 
The  beams  of  light  which  have  poured  down  upon  the 
velvet  moss,  the  green  turf  of  an  English  forest,  can 
reveal  the  dishevelled  locks  and  white  shoulders  of 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  303 

nymphs.  Do  we  not  see  it  in  Eubens  ?  And  what 
signify  discrepancies  in  the  happy  and  sublime  illu- 
sion of  fancy  ?  Are  there  more  discrepancies  ?  Who 
perceives  them,  who  feels  them  ?  Who  does  not  feel, 
on  the  contrary,  that  to  speak  the  truth,  there  is  but 
one  world,  that  of  Plato  and  the  poets;  that  actual 
phenomena  are  but  outlines — mutilated,  incomplete  and 
blurred  outlines — wretched  abortions  scattered  here  and 
there  on  Time's  track,  like  fragments  of  clay,  half 
moulded,  then  cast  aside,  lying  in  an  artist's  studio; 
that,  after  all,  invisible  forces  and  ideas,  which  for  ever 
renew  the  actual  existences,  attain  their  fulfilment  only 
in  imaginary  existences ;  and  that  the  poet,  in  order  to 
express  nature  in  its  entirety,  is  obliged  to  embrace  in 
his  sympathy  all  the  ideal  forms  by  which  nature  reveals 
itself?  This  is  the  greatness  of  his  work;  he  has  suc- 
ceeded in  seizing  beauty  in  its  fulness,  because  he  cared 
for  nothing  but  beauty. 

The  reader  will  feel  that  it  is  impossible  to  give  in  full 
the  plot  of  such  a  poem.  In  fact,  there  are  six  poems, 
each  of  a  dozen  cantos,  in  which  the  action  is  ever  diverg- 
ing and  converging  again,  becoming  confused  and  starting 
again ;  and  all  the  imaginings  of  antiquity  and  of  the 
middle- age  are,  I  believe,  combined  in  it.  The  knight 
"  pricks  along  the  plaine,"  among  the  trees,  and  at  a 
crossing  of  the  paths  meets  other  knights  with  whom 
he  engages  in  combat ;  suddenly  from  within  a  cave 
appears  a  monster,  half  woman  and  half  serpent,  sur- 
rounded by  a  hideous  offspring ;  further  on  a  giant,  with 
three  bodies ;  then  a  dragon,  great  as  a  hill,  with  sharp 
talons  and  vast  wings.  For  three  days  he  fights  him, 
and  twice  overthrown,  he  comes  to  himself  only  by  aid 
of  "  a  gracious  ointment."  After  that  there  axe  savage 


304  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

tribes  to  be  conquered,  castles  surrounded  by  flames  to 
be  taken.  Meanwhile  ladies  are  wandering  in  the 
midst  of  forests,  on  white  palfreys,  exposed  to,  the 
assaults  of  miscreants,  now  guarded  by  a  lion  which 
follows  them,  now  delivered  by  a  band  of  satyrs  who 
adore  them.  Magicians  work  manifold  charms ;  palaces 
display  their  festivities ;  tilt-yards  provide  endless 
tournaments ;  sea-gods,  nymphs,  fairies,  kings,  inter- 
mingle in  these  feasts,  surprises,  dangers. 

You  will  say  it  is  a  phantasmagoria.  What  matter, 
if  we  see  it?  And  we  do  see  it,  for  Spenser  does. 
His  sincerity  communicates  itself  to  us.  He  is  so  much 
at  home  in  this  world,  that  we  end  by  finding  ourselves 
at  home  in  it  too.  He  shows  no  appearance  of  aston- 
ishment at  astonishing  events ;  he  comes  upon  them  so 
naturally,  that  he  makes  them  natural ;  he  defeats  the 
miscreants,  as  if  he  had  done  nothing  else  all  his  life. 
Venus,  Diana,  and  the  old  deities,  dwell  at  his  gate  and 
enter  his  threshold  without  his  taking  any  heed  of  them. 
His  serenity  becomes  ours.  We  grow  credulous  and 
happy  by  contagion,  and  to  the  same  extent  as  he.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Is  it  possible  to  refuse  credence 
to  a  man  who  paints  things  for  us  with  such  accurate 
details  and  in  such  lively  colours  ?  Here  with  a  dash 
of  his  pen  he  describes  a  forest  for  you ;  and  are  you 
not  instantly  in  it  with  him  ?  Beech  trees  with  their 
silvery  stems,  "loftie  trees  iclad  with  sommers  pride, 
did  spred  so  broad,  that  heavens  light  did  hide ; "  rays 
of  light  tremble  on  the  bark  and  shine  on  the  ground, 
on  the  reddening  ferns  and  low  bushes,  which,  suddenly 
smitten  with  the  luminous  track,  glisten  and  glimmer. 
Footsteps  are  scarcely  heard  on  the  thick  beds  of  heaped 
leaves ;  and  at  distant  intervals,  on  the  tall  herbage, 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  305 

drops  of  dew  are  sparkling.  Yet  the  sound  of  a  horn 
reaches  us  through  the  foliage ;  how  sweetly  yet  cheer- 
fully it  falls  on  the  ear,  amidst  this  vast  silence !  It 
resounds  more  loudly ;  the  clatter  of  a  hunt  draws  near ; 
"  eft  through  the  thicke  they  heard  one  rudely  rush ; " 
a  nymph  approaches,  the  most  chaste  and  beautiful  ic 
the  world.  Spenser  sees  her ;  nay  more,  he  kneels 
before  her : 

"  Her  face  so  faire,  as  flesh  it  seemed  not, 
But  hevenly  pourtraict  of  bright  angels  hew, 
Cleare  as  the  skye,  withouten  blame  or  blot, 
Through  goodly  mixture  of  complexions  dew ; 
And  in  her  cheekes  the  vermeill  red  did  shew 
Like  roses  in  a  bed  of  lillies  shed, 
The  which  ambrosiall  odours  from  them  threw, 
And  gazers  sence  with  double  pleasure  fed, 
Hable  to  heale  the  sicke  and  to  revive  the  ded. 

In  her  faire  eyes  two  living  lamps  did  flame, 

Kindled  above  at  th1  Hevenly  Makers  light, 

And  darted  fyrie  beames  out  of  the  same ; 

So  passing  persant,  and  so  wondrous  bright, 

That  quite  bereav'd  the  rash  beholders  sight : 

In  them  the  blinded  god  his  lustfull  fyre 

To  kindle  oft  assayd,  but  had  no  might ; 

For,  with  dredd  maiestie  and  awfull  yre, 

She  broke  his  wanton  darts,  and  quenched  bace  desyre. 

Her  y  vorie  forhead,  full  of  bountie  brave, 
Like  a  broad  table  did  itselfe  dispred, 
For  Love  his  loftie  triumphes  to  engrave, 
And  write  the  battailes  of  his  great  godhed : 
All  good  and  honour  might  therein  be  red ; 
For  there  their  dwelling  was.     And,  when  she  spake, 
Sweete  wordes,  like  dropping  honny,  she  did  shed ; 
VOL.  I.  X 


306  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

And  'twixt  the  perles  and  rubins  softly  brake 

A  silver  sound,  that  heavenly  musicke  seemd  to  make. 

Upon  her  eyelids  many  Graces  sate, 

Under  the  shadow  of  her  even  browes, 

Working  belgardes  and  amorous  retrate ; 

And  everie  one  her  with  a  grace  endowes, 

And  everie  one  with  meekenesse  to  her  bowes  : 

So  glorious  mirrhour  of  celestiall  grace, 

And  soveraine  moniment  of  mortall  vowes, 

How  shall  frayle  pen  descrive  her  heavenly  face, 

For  feare,  through  want  of  skill,  her  beauty  to  disgrace  ! 

So  faire,  and  thousand  thousand  times  more  faire, 
She  seemd,  when  she  presented  was  to  sight ; 
And  was  yclad,  for  heat  of  scorching  aire, 
All  in  a  silken  Camus  lilly  whight, 
Purfled  upon  with  many  a  folded  plight, 
Which  all  above  besprinckled  was  throughout 
With  golden  aygulets,  that  glistred  bright, 
Like  twinckling  starres  ;  and  all  the  skirt  about 
Was  hemd  with  golden  fringe. 

Below  her  ham  her  weed  did  somewhat  trayne, 

And  her  streight  legs  most  bravely  were  embayld 

In  gilden  buskins  of  costly  cordwayne, 

All  bard  with  golden  bendes,  which  were  entayld 

With  curious  antickes,  and  full  fayre  aumayld  : 

Before,  they  fastned  were  under  her  knee 

In  a  rich  iewell,  and  therein  entrayld 

The  ends  of  all  the  knots,  that  none  might  see 

How  they  within  their  fouldings  close  enwrapped  bee. 

Like  two  faire  marble  pillours  they  were  seene, 
Which  doe  the  temple  of  the  gods  support, 
Whom  all  the  people  decke  with  girlands  greene, 
And  honour  in  their  festivall  resort ; 


.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE  307 

Those  same  with  stately  grace  aud  princely  port 
She  taught  to  tread,  when  she  herselfe  would  grace ; 
But  with  the  woody  nymphes  when  she  did  play, 
Or  when  the  flying  libbard  she  did  chace, 
She  could  them  nimbly  move,  and  after  fly  apace. 

And  in  her  hand  a  sharpe  bore-speare  she  held, 

And  at  her  backe  a  bow  and  quiver  gay, 

Stuft  with  steel-headed  dartes  wherewith  she  queld 

The  salvage  beastes  in  her  victorious  play, 

Knit  with  a  golden  bauldricke  which  forelay 

Athwart  her  snowy  brest,  and  did  divide 

Her  daiutie  paps ;  which,  like  young  fruit  in  May, 

Now  little  gan  to  swell,  and  being  tide 

Through  her  thin  weed  their  places  only  signifide. 

Her  yellow  lockes,  crisped  like  golden  wyre, 

About  her  shoulders  weren  loosely  shed, 

And,  when  the  winde  empngst  them  did  inspyre, 

They  waved  like  a  penon  wyde  dispred 

And  low  behinde  her  backe  were  scattered  : 

And,  whether  art  it  were  or  heedlesse  hap, 

As  through  the  flouring  forrest  rash  she  fled, 

In  her  rude  heares  sweet  flowres  themselves  did  lap, 

And  flourishing  fresh  leaves  and  blossomes  did  enwrap."1 

M  The  daintie  rose,  the  daughter  of  her  morne, 
More  deare  than  life  she  tendered,  whose  flowre 
The  girlond  of  her  honour  did  adorne  ; 
Ne  suffered  she  the  middayes  scorching  powre. 
Ne  the  sharp  northerne  wind  thereon  to  showre ; 
But  lapped  up  her  silken  leaves  most  chayre, 
Whenso  the  fro  ward  skye  began  to  lowre  ; 
But,  soone  as  calmed  was  the  cristall  ayre, 
She  did  it  fayre  dispred,  and  let  to  florish  fayre.wa 

1  The  Faerie  Qiieene,  ii.  c.  3,  st.  22-30. 
s  Ibid.  iii.  c.  5,  st.  51. 


308  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

He  is  on  his  knees  before  her,  I  repeat,  as  a  child  on 
Corpus  Christi  day,  among  flowers  and  perfumes,  trans- 
ported with  admiration,  so  that  he  sees  a  heavenly  light 
in  her  eyes,  and  angel's  tints  on  her  cheeks,  even 
impressing  into  her  service  Christian  angels  and  pagan 
graces  to  adorn  and  wait  upon  her;  it  is  love  which 
brings  such  visions  before  him; 

"  Sweet  love,  that  doth  his  golden  wings  embay 
In  blessed  nectar  and  pure  pleasures  well." 

Whence  this  perfect  beauty,  this  modest  and  charm- 
ing dawn,  in  which  he  assembles  all  the  brightness,  all 
the  sweetness,  all  the  virgin  graces  of  the  full  morning  ? 
What  mother  begat  her,  what  marvellous  birth  brought 
to  light  such  a  wonder  of  grace  and  purity  ?  One  day, 
in  a  sparkling,  solitary  fountain,  where  the  sunbeams 
shone,  Chrysogone  was  bathing  with  roses  and  violets. 

"  It  was  upon  a  sommers  shinie  day, 
When  Titan  faire  his  beames  did  display, 
In  a  fresh  fountaine,  far  from  all  mens  vew, 
She  bath'd  her  brest  the  boyling  heat  t'  allay ; 
She  bath'd  with  roses  red  and  violets  blew, 
And  all  the  sweetest  flowers  that  in  the  forrest  grew. 
Till  faint  through  yrkesome  wearines  adowne 
Upon  the  grassy  ground  herselfe  she  layd 
To  sleepe,  the  whiles  a  gentle  slombriug  swowne 
Upon  her  fell  all  naked  bare  displayd."  1 

The  beams  played  upon  her  body,  and  "  fructified  "  her. 
The  months  rolled  on.  Troubled  and  ashamed,  she 
went  into  the  "  wildernesse,"  and  sat  down,  "  every 
sence  with  sorrow  sore  opprest."  Meanwhile  Venus, 

1  The  Faerie  Qacenc,  iii.  c.  6,  st.  6  and  7. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  309 

searching  for  her  boy  Cupid,  who  had  mutinied  and  fled 
from  her,  "  wandered  in  the  world."  She  had  sought 
him  in  courts,  cities,  cottages,  promising  "  kisses  sweet, 
and  sweeter  things,  unto  the  man  that  of  him  tydings 
to  her  brings." 

"  Shortly  unto  the  wastefull  woods  she  came, 
Whereas  she  found  the  goddesse  (Diana)  with  her  crew, 
After  late  chace  of  their  embrewed  game, 
Sitting  beside  a  fouutaine  in  a  rew ; 
Some  of  them  washing  with  the  liquid  dew 
From  off  their  dainty  limbs  the  dusty  sweat 
And  soyle,  which  did  deforme  their  lively  hew  ; 
Others  lay  shaded  from  the  scorching  heat 
The  rest  upon  her  person  gave  attendance  great. 
She,  having  hong  upon  a  bough  on  high 
Her  bow  and  painted  quiver,  had  unlaste 
Her  silver  buskins  from  her  nimble  thigh, 
And  her  lanck  loynes  ungirt,  and  brests  unbraste, 
After  her  heat  the  breathing  cold  to  taste  ; 
Her  golden  lockes,  that  late  in  tresses  bright 
Em  breaded  were  for  hindring  of  her  haste, 
Now  loose  about  her  shoulders  hong  undight, 
And  were  with  sweet  Ambrosia  all  besprinckled  light." l 

Diana,  surprised  thus,  repulses  Venus,  "  and  gan  to  smile, 
in  scorne  of  her  vaine  playnt,"  swearing  that  if  she 
should  catch  Cupid,  she  would  clip  his  wanton  wings. 
Then  she  took  pity  on  the  afflicted  goddess,  and  set 
herself  with  her  to  look  for  the  fugitive.  They  came 
to  the  "  shady  covert "  where  Chrysogone,  in  her  sleep, 
had  given  birth  "  unawares"  to  two  lovely  girls,  "as  faire 
as  springing  day."  Diana  took  one,  and  made  her  the 
purest  of  all  virgins.  Venus  carried  off  the  other  to  the 
1  The  Fa£rie  Queene,  iii.  c.  6,  st.  17  and  18. 


310  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  ii. 

Garden  of  Adonis,  "  the  first  seminary  of  all  things,  that 
are  borne  to  live  and  dye ; "  where  Psyche,  the  bride 
of  Love,  disports  herself ;  where  Pleasure,  their  daughter, 
wantons  with  the  Graces ;  where  Adonis,  "  lapped  in 
flowres  and  pretious  spycery,"  "  liveth  in  eternal  bliss," 
and  came  back  to  life  through  the  breath  of  immortal 
Love.  She  brought  her  up  as  her  daughter,  selected  her 
to  be  the  most  faithful  of  loves,  and  after  long  trials, 
gave  her  hand  to  the  good  knight  Sir  Scudamore. 

That  is  the  kind  of  thing  we  meet  with  in  the  won- 
drous forest.  Are  you  ill  at  ease  there,  and  do  you  wish 
to  leave  it  because  it  is  wondrous  ?  At  every  bend  in 
the  alley,  at  every  change  of  the  light,  a  stanza,  a  word, 
reveals  a  landscape  or  an  apparition.  It  is  morning, 
the  white  dawn  gleams  faintly  through  the  trees ; 
bluish  vapours  veil  the  horizon,  and  vanish  in  the 
smiling  air;  the  springs  tremble  and  murmur  faintly 
amongst  the  mosses,  and  on  high  the  poplar  leaves 
begin  to  stir  and  flutter  like  the  wings  of  butterflies. 
A  knight  alights  from  his  horse,  a  valiant  knight,  who 
has  unhorsed  many  a  Saracen,  and  experienced  many 
an  adventure.  He  unlaces  his  helmet,  and  on  a  sudden 
you  perceive  the  cheeks  of  a  young  girl ; 

"  Which  doft,  her  golden  lockes,  that  were  upbound 
Still  in  a  knot,  unto  her  heeles  downe  traced, 
And  like  a  silken  veile  in  compasse  round 
About  her  backe  and  all  her  bodie  wound  ; 
Like  as  the  shining  skie  in  summers  night, 
What  time  the  dayes  with  scorching  heat  abound, 
Is  creasted  all  with  lines  of  firie  light, 
That  it  prodigious  seemes  in  common  peoples  sight."1 

It  is  Britomart,  a  virgin  and  a  heroine,  like  Clorinda 

1  The  Fa£rie  Queene,  iv.  c.  1,  st  18. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  311 

or  Marfisa,1  but  how  much  more  ideal !  The  deep 
sentiment  of  nature,  the  sincerity  of  reverie,  the  ever- 
flowing  fertility  of  inspiration,  the  German  seriousness, 
reanimate  in  this  poem  classical  or  chivalrous  concep- 
tions, even  when  they  are  the  oldest  or  the  most  trite. 
The  train  of  splendours  and  of  scenery  never  ends. 
Desolate  promontories,  cleft  with  gaping  chasms ;  thun- 
der-stricken and  blackened  masses  of  rocks,  against 
which  the  hoarse  breakers  dash ;  palaces  sparkling  with 
gold,  wherein  ladies,  beauteous  as  angels,  reclining 
carelessly  on  purple  cushions,  listen  with  sweet  smiles 
to  the  harmony  of  music  played  by  unseen  hands ; 
lofty  silent  walks,  where  avenues  of  oaks  spread  their 
motionless  shadows  over  clusters  of  virgin  violets,  and 
turf  which  never  mortal  foot  has  trod; — to  all  these 
beauties  of  art  and  nature  he  adds  the  marvels  of 
mythology,  and  describes  them  with  as  much  of  love 
and  sincerity  as  a  painter  of  the  Renaissance  or  an 
ancient  poet.  Here  approach  on  chariots  of  shell, 
Cymoent  and  her  nymphs  : 

"  A  teme  of  dolphins  raunged  in  aray 
Drew  the  smooth  charett  of  sad  Cymoent ; 
They  were  all  taught  by  Triton  to  obay 
To  the  long  raynes  at  her  commaundement : 
As  swifte  as  swallowes  on  the  waves  they  went, 
That  their  brode  flaggy  finnes  no  fome  did  reare, 
Ne  bubling  rowndell  they  behinde  them  sent ; 
The  rest,  of  other  fishes  drawen  weare  ; 
Which  with  their  finny  oars  the  swelling  sea  did  sheare."  2 

1  Clorinda,  the  heroine  of  the  infidel  army  in  Tasso's  epic  poem 
Jerusalem  Delivered  ;  Marfisa,  an  Indian  Queen,  who  figures  in  Ariosto'a 
Orlando  Furioso,  and  also  in  Boyardo's  Orlando  Tnnamorato. — TE. 

*  The  Faerie  Queene,  iii.  c.  4,  st.  33. 


312  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

Nothing,  again,  can  be  sweeter  or  calmer  than  the 
description  of  the  palace  of  Morpheus : 

"  He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ayre, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and  deepe, 
To  Morpheus  house  doth  hastily  repaire. 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steepe, 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peepe 
His  dwelling  is;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steepe 
In  silver  deaw  his  ever-drouping  hed, 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth  spred. 
And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe 
And  ever-drizzling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard  :  but  careless  Quiet  lyes, 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  enimyes."  l 

Observe  also  in  a  corner  of  this  forest,  a  band  of  satyrs 
dancing  under  the  green  leaves.  They  come  leaping 
like  wanton  kids,  as  gay  as  birds  of  joyous  spring. 
The  fair  Hellenore,  whom  they  have  chosen  for  "  May- 
lady,"  "daunst  lively"  also,  laughing,  and  "with  gir- 
londs  all  bespredd."  The  wood  re-echoes  the  sound  of 
their  "  merry  pypes."  "  Their  horned  feet  the  greene 
gras  wore."  "All  day  they  daunced  with  great 
lustyhedd,"  with  sudden  motions  and  alluring  looks, 
while  about  them  their  flock  feed  on  "  the  brouzes  "  at 
their  pleasure.2  In  every  book  we  see  strange  processions 
pass  by,  allegorical  and  picturesque  shows,  like  those 

1  The  Faerie  Queenet  i.  c.  1,  st.  39  and  41.      3  Ibid.  iii.  c.  10,  st.  43-45. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  313 

which  were  then  displayed  at  the  courts  of  priiices; 
now  a  masquerade  of  Cupid,  now  of  the  Kivers,  now  of 
the  Months,  now  of  the  Vices.  Imagination  was  never 
more  prodigal  or  inventive.  Proud  Lucifera  advances 
in  a  chariot  "  adorned  all  with  gold  and  girlonds  gay," 
beaming  like  the  dawn,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  cour- 
tiers whom  she  dazzles  with  her  glory  and  splendour : 
"  six  unequall  beasts "  draw  her  along,  and  each  of 
these  is  ridden  by  a  Vice.  Idleness  "  upon  a  slouthfull 
asse  ...  in  habit  blacke  .  .  .  like  to  an  holy  monck," 
sick  for  very  laziness,  lets  his  heavy  head  droop,  and 
holds  in  his  hand  a  breviary  which  he  does  not  read ; 
gluttony,  on  "  a  filthie  swyne,"  crawls  by  in  his 
deformity,  "  his  belly  .  .  .  upblowne  with  luxury,  and 
eke  with  fatnesse  swollen  were  his  eyne ;  and  like  a 
crane  his  necke  was  long  and  fyne,"  drest  in  vine-leaves, 
through  which  one  can  see  his  body  eaten  by  ulcers, 
and  vomiting  along  the  road  the  wine  and  flesh  with 
which  he  is  glutted.  Avarice  seated  between  "  two  iron 
coffers,"  "  upon  a  camell  loaden  all  with  gold,"  is  hand- 
ling a  heap  of  coin,  with  thread-bare  coat,  hollow  cheeks, 
and  feet  stiff  with  gout.  Envy  "  upon  a  ravenous  wolfe 
still  did  chaw  between  his  cankred  teeth  a  venemous 
tode,  that  all  the  poison  ran  about  his  chaw,"  and  his 
discoloured  garment  "  ypainted  full  of  eies,"  conceals  a 
snake  wound  about  his  body.  Wrath,  covered  with  a 
torn  and  bloody  robe,  comes  riding  on  a  lion,  brandish- 
ing about  his  head  "a  burning  brond,"  his  eyes  sparkling, 
his  face  pale  as  ashes,  grasping  in  his  feverish  hand  the 
haft  of  his  dagger.  The  strange  and  terrible  procession 
passes  on,  led  by  the  solemn  harmony  of  the  stanzas ; 
and  the  grand  music  of  oft  repeated  rhymes  sustains  the 
imagination  in  this  fantastic  world,  which,  with  its 


314  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IT. 

mingled  horrors  and  splendours,  has  just  been  opened 
to  its  flight. 

Yet  all  this  is  little.  However  much  mythology 
and  chivalry  can  supply,  they  do  not  suffice  for  the 
needs  of  this  poetical  fancy.  Spenser's  characteristic 
is  the  vastness  and  overflow  of  his  picturesque  invention. 
Like  Eubens,  whatever  he  creates  is  beyond  the  region 
of  all  traditions,  but  complete  in  all  parts,  and  expresses 
distinct  ideas.  As  with  Eubens,  his  allegory  swells 
its  proportions  beyond  all  rule,  and  withdraws  fancy 
from  all  law,  except  in  so  far  as  it  is  necessary  to 
harmonise  forms  and  colours.  For,  if  ordinary  minds 
receive  from  allegory  a  certain  weight  which  oppresses 
them,  lofty  imaginations  receive  from,  it  wings  which 
carry  them  aloft.  Freed  by  it  from  the  common 
conditions  of  life,  they  can  dare  all  things,  beyond 
imitation,  apart  from  probability,  with  no  other  guides 
but  their  inborn  energy  and  their  shadowy  instincts. 
For  three  days  Sir  Guyon  is  led  by  the  cursed  spirit, 
the  tempter  Mammon,  in  the  subterranean  realm,  across 
wonderful  gardens,  trees  laden  with  golden  fruits,  glit- 
tering palaces,  and  a  confusion  of  all  worldly  treasures. 
They  have  descended  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and 
pass  through  caverns,  unknown  abysses,  silent  depths. 
"  An  ugly  Feend  .  .  .  with  monstrous  stalke  behind 
him  stept,"  without  Guyon's  knowledge,  ready  to  devour 
him  on  the  least  show  of  covetousness.  The  brilliancy 
of  the  gold  lights  up  hideous  figures,  and  the  beaming 
metal  shines  with  a  beauty  more  seductive  in  the 
gloom  of  the  infernal  prison. 

"  That  Houses  forme  within  was  rude  and  strong, 
Lyke  an  huge  cave  hewne  out  of  rocky  clifte, 
From  whose  rough  vaut  the  ragged  breaches  hong 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  315 

Embost  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  guifte, 

And  with  rich  metall  loaded  every  rifte, 

That  heavy  ruine  they  did  seeme  to  threatt ; 

And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lifte 

Her  cunning  web,  and  spred  her  subtile  nett, 

Enwrapped  in  fowle  smoke  and  clouds  more  black  than  iett. 

Both  roofe,  and  floore,  and  walls,  were  all  of  gold, 

But  overgrowne  with  dust  and  old  decay, 

And  hid  in  darknes,  that  none  could  behold 

The  hew  thereof ;  for  vew  of  cherefull  day 

Did  never  in  that  House  itselfe  display, 

But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertein  light ; 

Such  as  a  lamp,  whose  life  does  fade  away ; 

Or  as  the  moone,  cloathed  with  clowdy  night, 

Does  show  to  him  that  walkes  in  feare  and  sad  affright. 

In  all  that  rowrae  was  nothing  to  be  seene 

But  huge  great  yron  chests  and  coffers  strong, 

All  bard  with  double  bends,  that  none  could  weene 

Them  to  enforce  by  violence  or  wrong ; 

On  every  side  they  placed  were  along. 

But  all  the  grownd  with  sculs  was  scattered 

And  dead  mens  bones,  which  round  about  were  flong  ; 

Whose  lives,  it  seemed,  whilome  there  were  shed. 

And  their  vile  carcases  now  left  unburied.  .  .  . 

Thence,  forward  he  him  ledd  and  shortly  brought 
Unto  another  rowme,  whose  dore  forthright 
To  him  did  open  as  it  had  beene  taught : 
Therein  an  hundred  raunges  weren  pight, 
And  hundred  fournaces  all  burning  bright ; 
By  every  foumace  many  Feends  did  byde, 
Deformed  creatures,  horrible  in  sight ; 
And  every  Feend  his  busie  paines  applyde 
To  melt  the  golden  metall,  ready  to  be  tryde. 


316  THE  RENAISSANCE  BOOK  n. 

One  with  great  bellowes  gathered  filling  ayre, 

And  with  forst  wind  the  fewell  did  inflame  ; 

Another  did  the  dying  bronds  repayre 

With  yron  tongs,  and  sprinckled  ofte  the  same 

With  liquid  waves,  fiers  Vulcans  rage  to  tame, 

Who,  maystring  them,  renewd  his  former  heat : 

Some  scumd  the  drosse  that  from  the  metall  came ; 

Some  stird  the  molten  owre  with  ladles  great : 

And  every  one  did  swincke,  and  every  one  did  sweat  ... 

He  brought  him,  through  a  darksom  narrow  strayt, 

To  a  broad  gate  all  built  of  beaten  gold  : 

The  gate  was  open  ;  but  therein  did  wayt 

A  sturdie  Villein,  stryding  stiffe  and  bold, 

As  if  the  Highest  God  defy  he  would  : 

In  his  right  hand  an  yron  club  he  held, 

But  he  himselfe  was  all  of  golden  mould, 

Yet  had  both  life  and  sence,  and  well  could  weld 

That  cursed  weapon,  when  his  cruell  foes  he  queld  .  .  . 

He  brought  him  in.     The  rowme  was  large  and  wyde, 

As  it  some  gyeld  or  soleinne  temple  weare  ; 

Many  great  golden  pillours  did  upbeare 

The  massy  roofe,  and  riches  huge  sustayne ; 

And  every  pillour  decked  was  full  deare 

With  crownes,  and  diademes,  and  titles  vaine, 

Which  mortall  princes  wore  whiles  they  on  earth  did  rayne. 

A  route  of  people  there  assembled  were, 

Of  every  sort  and  nation  under  skye, 

Which  with  great  uprore  preaced  to  draw  nere 

To  th'  upper  part,  where  was  advaunced  hye 

A  stately  siege  of  soveraine  maiestye  ; 

And  thereon  satt  a  Woman  gorgeous  gay, 

And  richly  cladd  in  robes  of  royaltye, 

That  never  earthly  prince  in  such  aray 

His  glory  did  enhaunce,  and  pompous  pryde  display  .  .  . 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  317 

There,  as  in  glistring  glory  she  did  sitt, 
She  held  a  great  gold  chaine  ylincked  well, 
Whose  upper  eud  to  highest  heven  was  knitt, 
And  lower  part  did  reach  to  lowest  hell."  l 

No  artist's  dream  matches  these  visions :  the  glow  of 
the  furnaces  beneath  the  vaults  of  the  cavern,  the  lights 
flickering  over  the  crowded  figures,  the  throne,  and  the 
strange  glitter  of  the  gold  shining  in  every  direction 
through  the  darkness.  The  allegory  assumes  gigantic 
proportions.  When  the  object  is  to  show  temperance 
struggling  with  temptations,  Spenser  deems  it  necessary 
to  mass  all  the  temptations  together.  He  is  treating 
of  a  general  virtue ;  and  as  such  a  virtue  is  capable  of 
every  sort  of  resistance,  he  requires  from  it  every  sort 
of •  resistance  alike; — after  the  test  of  gold,  that  of 
pleasure.  Thus  the  grandest  and  the  most  exquisite 
spectacles  follow  and  are  contrasted  with  each  other,  and 
all  are  supernatural ;  the  graceful  and  the  terrible  are 
side  by  side, — the  happy  gardens  close  by  with  the 
cursed  subterranean  cavern. 

"  No  gate,  but  like  one,  being  goodly  dight 
With  bowes  and  braunches,  which  did  broad  dilate 
Their  clasping  arraes  in  wanton  wreathings  intricate  : 

So  fashioned  a  porch  with  rare  device, 
Archt  over  head  with  an  embracing  vine, 
Whose  bounehes  hanging  downe  seemed  to  entice 
All  passers-by  to  taste  their  lushious  wine, 
And  did  themselves  into  their  hands  incline, 
As  freely  offering  to  be  gathered ; 
Some  deepe  empurpled  as  the  hyacine, 
Some  as  the  rubine  laughing  sweetely  red, 
Some  like  faire  emeraudes,  not  yet  well  ripened. 

1  The  Faerie  Queene,  ii  c.  7,  st.  28-46. 


318  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountains  stood, 

Of  richest  substance  that  on  earth  might  bee, 

So  pure  and  shiny  that  the  silver  flood 

Through  every  chaimell  running  one  might  see ; 

Most  goodly  it  with  curious  ymageree 

Was  over-wrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boyes, 

Of  which  some  seemed  with  lively  iollitee 

To  fly  about,  playing  their  wanton  toyes, 

Whylest  others  did  themselves  embay  in  liquid  ioyes. 

And  over  all  of  purest  gold  was  spred 

A  trayle  of  yvie  in  his  native  hew ; 

For  the  rich  metall  was  so  coloured, 

That  wight,  who  did  not  well  avis'd  it  vew, 

Would  surely  deeme  it  to  bee  yvie  trew ; 

Low  his  lascivious  armes  adown  did  creepe, 

That  themselves  dipping  in  the  silver  dew 

Their  fleecy  flowres  they  fearfully  did  steepe, 

Which  drops  of  christall  seemd  for  wan  tones  to  weep. 

Infinit  streames  continually  did  well 

Out  of  this  fountaine,  sweet  and  faire  to  see, 

The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell, 

And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  quantitie, 

That  like  a  little  lake  it  seemd  to  bee ; 

Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits  bight, 

That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom  see, 

All  pav'd  beneath  with  jaspar  shining  bright, 

That  seemd  the  fountaine  in  that  sea  did  sayle  upright .  . . 

The  ioyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  chearefull  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet ; 
Th'  angelicall  soft  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet ; 
The  silver-sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmur  of  the  waters  fall ; 
The  waters  fall  with  difference  discreet, 


CHAP.  L  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  319 

Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all.  .  . 

Upon  a  bed  of  roses  she  was  layd, 

As  faint  through  heat,  or  dight  to  pleasant  sin ; 

And  was  arayd,  or  rather  disarayd, 

All  in  a  vele  of  silke  and  silver  thin, 

That  hid  no  whit  her  alabaster  skin, 

But  rather  shewd  more  white,  if  more  might  bee  : 

More  subtile  web  Arachne  cannot  spin  ; 

Nor  the  fine  nets,  which  oft  we  woven  see 

Of  scorched  deaw,  do  not  in  th'  ayre  more  lightly  flee. 

Her  snowy  brest  was  bare  to  ready  spoyle 

Of  hungry  eies,  which  n'  ote  therewith  be  fild ; 

And  yet,  through  languour  of  her  late  sweet  toyle, 

Few  drops,  more  cleare  then  nectar,  forth  distild, 

That  like  pure  orient  perles  adowne  it  trild ; 

And  her  faire  eyes,  sweet  smyling  in  delight, 

Moystened  their  fierie  beames,  with  which  she  thrild 

Fraile  harts,  yet  quenched  not,  like  starry  lights 

Which  sparckling  on  the  silent  waves,  does  seeme  more  bright." l 

Do  we  find  here  nothing  but  fairy  land  ?  Yes ; 
here  are  finished  pictures  time  and  complete,  composed 
with  a  painter's  feeling,  with  choice  of  tints  and  out- 
lines ;  our  eyes  are  delighted  by  them.  This  reclining 
Acrasia  has  the  pose  of  a  goddess,  or  of  one  of  Titian's 
courtesans.  An  Italian  artist  might  copy  these  gardens, 
these  flowing  waters,  these  sculptured  loves,  those 
wreaths  of  creeping  ivy  thick  with  glossy  leaves  and 
fleecy  flowers.  Just  before,  in  the  infernal  depths, 
the  lights,  with  their  long  streaming  rays,  were  fine, 
half-smothered  by  the  darkness ;  the  lofty  throne  in  the 
vast  hall,  between  the  pillars,  in  the  midst  of  a  swann- 

1  The  Fairie  Queene,  ii.  c.  12,  st.  53-78. 


320  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  ir. 

ing  multitude,  connected  all  the  forms  around  it  by  draw- 
ing all  looks  towards  one  centre.  The  poet,  here  and 
throughout,  is  a  colonrist  and  an  architect.  However 
fantastic  his  world  may  be,  it  is  not  factitious;  if  it 
does  not  exist,  it  might  have  been ;  indeed,  it  should 
have  been ;  it  is  the  fault  of  circumstances  if  they  do 
not  so  group  themselves  as  to  bring  it  to  pass ;  taken  by 
itself,  it  possesses  that  internal  harmony  by  which  a 
real  thing,  even  a  still  higher  harmony,  exists,  inasmuch 
as,  without  any  regard  to  real  things,  it  is  altogether,  and 
in  its  least  detail,  constructed  with  a  view  to  beauty. 
Art  has  made  its  appearance :  this  is  the  great  charac- 
teristic of  the  age,  which  distinguishes  the  Faerie  Queene 
from  all  similar  tales  heaped  up  by  the  middle-age. 
Incoherent,  mutilated,  they  lie  like  rubbish,  or  rough- 
hewn  stones,  which  the  weak  hands  of  the  trouveres 
could  not  build  into  a  monument.  At  last  the  poets 
and  artists  appear,  and  with  them  the  conception  of 
beauty,  to  wit,  the  idea  of  general  effect.  They  under- 
stand proportions,  relations,  contrasts ;  they  compose. 
In  their  hands  the  blurred  vague  sketch  becomes  denned, 
complete,  separate;  it  assumes  colour  —  is  made  a 
picture.  Every  object  thus  conceived  and  imaged  ac- 
quires a  definite  existence  as  soon  as  it  assumes  a  true 
form ;  centuries  after,  it  will  be  acknowledged  and  ad- 
mired, and  men  will  be  touched  by  it ;  and  more,  they 
will  be  touched  by  its  author ;  for,  besides  the  object 
which  he  paints,  the  poet  paints  himself.  His  ruling 
idea  is  stamped  upon  the  work  which  it  produces  and 
controls.  Spenser  is  superior'  to  his  subject,  compre- 
hends it  fully,  frames  it  with  a  view  to  its  end,  in  order 
to  impress  upon  it  the  proper  mark  of  his  soul  and  his 
genius.  Each  story  is  modulated  with  respect  to  another, 


V-I.  P-320. 


JOHN    SELDEN 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  321 

and  all  with  respect  to  a  certain  effect  which  is  being 
worked  out.  Thus  a  beauty  issues  from  this  harmony, 
—the  beauty  in  the  poet's  heart, — which  his  whole 
work  strives  to  express ;  a  noble  and  yet  a  cheerful 
beauty,  made  up  of  moral  elevation  and  sensuous  se- 
ductions, English  in  sentiment,  Italian  in  externals, 
chivalric  in  subject,  modern  in  its  perfection,  representing 
a  unique  and  wonderful  epoch,  the  appearance  of  pagan- 
ism in  a  Christian  race,  and  the  worship  of  form  by  an 
imagination  of  the  North. 

§  3.  PROSE. 

I. 

Such  an  epoch  can  scarcely  last,  and  the  poetic 
vitality  wears  itself  out  by  its  very  efflorescence,  so 
that  its  expansion  leads  to  its  decline.  From  the  be- 
ginning of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  subsidence  of 
manners  and  genius  grows  apparent.  Enthusiasm  and 
respect  decline.  The  minions  and  court-fops  intrigue 
and  pilfer,  amid  pedantry,  puerility,  and  show.  The 
court  plunders,  and  the  nation  murmurs.  The  Commons 
begin  to  show  a  stern  front,  and  the  king,  scolding  them 
like  a  schoolmaster,  gives  way  before  them  like  a  little 
boy.  This  sorry  monarch  (James  I.)  suffers  himself  to 
be  bullied  by  his  favourites,  writes  to  them  like  a  gossip, 
calls  himself  a  Solomon,  airs  his  literary  vanity,  and  in 
granting  an  audience  to  a  courtier,  recommends  him  to 
become  a  scholar,  and  expects  to  be  complimented  on 
his  own  scholarly  attainments.  The  dignity  of  the 
government  is  weakened,  and  the  people's  loyalty  is 
cooled.  Royalty  declines,  and  revolution  is  fostered. 
At  the  same  time,  the  noble  chivalric  paganism  degen- 

VOL.  I.  Y 


322  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

erates  into  a  base  and  coarse  sensuality.  The  king,  we 
are  told,  on  one  occasion,  had  got  so  drunk  with  his 
royal  brother  Christian  of  Denmark,  that  they  both 
had  to  be  carried  to  bed.  Sir  John  Harrington 
says : 

"  The  ladies  abandon  their  sobriety,  and  are  seen  to  roll  about 
In  intoxication.  .  .  .  The  Lady  who  did  play  the  Queen's  part 
(in  the  Masque  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba)  did  carry  most  precious  gifts 
to  both  their  Majesties ;  but,  forgetting  the  steppes  arising  to 
the  canopy,  overset  her  caskets  into  his  Danish  Majesties  lap, 
and  fell  at  his  feet,  tho  I  rather  think  it  was  in  his  face.  Much 
was  the  hurry  and  confusion  ;  cloths  and  napkins  were  at  hand, 
to  make  all  clean.  His  Majesty  then  got  up  and  would  dance 
with  the  Queen  of  Sheba ;  but  he  fell  down  and  humbled 
himself  before  her,  and  was  carried  to  an  inner  chamber  and 
laid  on  a  bed  of  state  ;  which  was  not  a  little  defiled  with  the 
presents  of  the  Queen  which  had  been  bestowed  on  his  garments  ; 
such  as  wine,  cream,  jelly,  beverage,  cakes,  spices,  and  other 
good  matters.  The  entertainment  and  show  went  forward,  and 
most  of  the  presenters  went  backward,  or  fell  down ;  wine  did 
so  occupy  their  upper  chambers.  Now  did  appear,  in  rich  dress, 
Hope,  Faith,  and  Charity  :  Hope  did  assay  to  speak,  but  wire 
rendered  her  endeavours  so  feeble  that  she  withdrew,  and  hoped 
the  king  would  excuse  her  brevity :  Faith  .  .  .  left  the  court 
in  a  staggering  condition.  .  .  .  They  were  both  sick  and  spewing 
in  the  lower  ball.  Next  came  Victory,  who  ...  by  a  strange 
medley  of  versification  .  .  .  and  after  much  lamentable  utterance 
was  led  away  like  a  silly  captive,  and  laid  to  sleep  in  the  outer 
steps  of  the  anti-chamber.  As  for  Peace,  she  most  rudely  made 
war  with  her  olive  branch,  and  laid  on  the  pates  of  those  who 
did  oppose  her  coming.  I  ne'er  did  see  such  lack  of  good  order, 
discretion,  and  sobriety  in  our  Queen's  days."  l 

Observe   that    these    tipsy  women  were  great   ladies. 

1  ffugae  jAntiguce,  i.  349  et  passim. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  323 

The  reason  is,  that  the  grand  ideas  which  introduce  an 
epoch,  end,  in  their  exhaustion,  by  preserving  nothing 
but  their  vices ;  the  proud  sentiment  of  natural  life  be- 
comes a  vulgar  appeal  to  the  senses.  An  entrance,  an 
arch  of  triumph  under  James  I.,  often  represented 
obscenities ;  and  later,  when  the  sensual  instincts,  exas- 
perated by  Puritan  tyranny,  begin  to  raise  their  heads 
once  more,  we  shall  find  under  the  Eestoration  excess 
revelling  in  its  low  vices,  and  triumphing  in  its  shame- 
lessness. 

Meanwhile  literature  undergoes  a  change ;  the  power- 
ful breeze  which  had  wafted  it  on,  and  which,  amidst 
singularity,  refinements,  exaggerations,  had  made  it 
great,  slackened  and  diminished.  With  Carew,  Suckling, 
and  Herrick,  prettiness  takes  the  place  of  the  beautiful. 
That  which  strikes  them  is  no  longer  the  general  features 
of  things ;  and  they  no  longer  try  to  express  the  inner 
character  of  what  they  describe.  They  no  longer  possess 
that  liberal  conception,  that  instinctive  penetration,  by 
which  we  sympathise  with  objects,  and  grow  capable  of 
creating  them  anew.  They  no  longer  boast  of  that  over- 
flow of  emotions,  that  excess  of  ideas  and  images,  which 
compelled  a  man  to  relieve  himself  by  words,  to  act 
externally,  to  represent  freely  and  boldly  the  interior 
drama  which  made  his  whole  body  and  heart  tremble. 
They  are  rather  wits  of  the  court,  cavaliers  of  fashion, 
who  wish  to  show  off  their  imagination  and  style.  In 
their  hands  love  becomes  gallantry ;  they  write  songs, 
fugitive  pieces,  compliments  to  the  ladies.  There  are 
no  more  upwellings  from  the  heart.  They  write  elo- 
quent phrases  in  order  to  be  applauded,  and  flattering 
exaggerations  in  order  to  please.  The  divine  faces,  the 
serious  or  profound  looks,  the  virgin  or  impassioned 


324  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  it. 

expressions  which  burst  forth  at  every  step  in  the  early 
poets,  have  disappeared ;  here  we  see  nothing  but  agree- 
able countenances,  painted  in  agreeable  verses.  Black- 
guardism is  not  far  off;  we  meet  with  it  already  in 
Suckling,  and  crudity  to  boot,  and  prosaic  epicurism  ; 
their  sentiment  is  expressed  before  long,  in  such  a  phrase 
as :  "  Let  us  amuse  ourselves,  and  a  fig  for  the  rest." 
The  only  objects  they  can  still  paint,  are  little  graceful 
things,  a  kiss,  a  May-day  festivity,  a  dewy  primrose,  a  daf- 
fodil, a  marriage  morning,  a  bee.1  Herrick  and  Suckling 

1  "  Some  asked  me  where  the  Rubies  grew, 

And  nothing  I  did  say ; 
But  with  my  finger  pointed  to 

The  lips  of  Julia. 
Some  ask'd  how  Pearls  did  grow,  and  where  ; 

Then  spake  I  to  my  girle, 
To  part  her  lips,  and  shew  me  there 

The  quarelets  of  Pearl. 
One  ask'd  me  where  the  roses  grew ; 

1  bade  him  not  go  seek  ; 
But  forthwith  bade  my  Julia  show 
A  bud  in  either  cheek." 

HERRICK'S  Hesperides,  ed.  Walford,  1859; 
TJie  Rock  of  Rubies,  p.  32. 

'  About  the  sweet  bag  of  a  bee, 

Two  Cupids  fell  at  odds  ; 
And  whose  the  pretty  prize  shu'd  be, 

They  vow'd  to  ask  the  Gods. 
Which  Venus  hearing,  thither  came, 

And  for  their  boldness  stript  them  ; 
And  taking  thence  from  each  his  flame, 

With  rods  of  mirtle  whipt  them. 
Which  done,  to  still  their  wanton  cries, 

When  quiet  grown  sh'ad  seen  them, 
She  kist  and  wip'd  their  dove-like  eyes, 

And  gave  the  bag  between  them. " 

HERRICK,  Ibid.  ;  The,  Bag  of  the  Bee,  p.  41. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  325 

especially  produce  little  exquisite  poems,  delicate,  ever 
pleasant  or  agreeable,  like  those  attributed  to  Anacreon, 
or  those  which  abound  in  the  Anthology.  In  fact,  here, 
as  at  the  Grecian  period  alluded  to,  we  are  in  the  decline 
of  paganism ;  energy  departs,  the  reign  of  the  agreeable 
begins.  People  do  not  relinquish  the  worship  of 
beauty  and  pleasure,  but  dally  with  them.  Tftey  deck 
and  fit  them  to  their  taste ;  they  cease  to  subdue  and 
bend  men,  who  enjoy  them  whilst  they  amuse  them. 
It  is  the  last  beam  of  a  setting  sun ;  the  genuine  poetic 

"  Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Pr'ythee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Pr'ythee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Pr'ythee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Pr'ythee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Quit,  quit  for  shame  :  this  will  not  move, 

This  cannot  take  her  ; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her. 

The  devil  take  her !  " 

Sir  JOHN  SUCKLING'S  Works,  ed.  A.  Suckling, 
1836,  p.  70. 

"  As  when  a  lady,  walking  Flora's  bower, 
Picks  here  a  pink,  and  there  a  gilly-flower, 
Now  plucks  a  violet  from  her  purple  bed,  . 
And  then  a  primrose,  the  year's  maidenhead, 
There  nips  the  brier,  here  the  lover's  punsy, 
Shifting  her  dainty  pleasures  with  her  fancy, 
This  on  her  arms,  and  that  she  lists  to  wear 
Upon  the  borders  of  her  curious  hair  ; 
At  length  a  rose-bud  (passing  all  the  rest) 
She  plucks,  and  bosoms  in  her  lily  breast. 

QUARLES. 


326  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

sentiment  dies  out  with  Sedley,  "Waller,  and  the  rhyme- 
sters of  the  Eestoration;  they  write  prose  in  verse; 
their  heart  is  on  a  level  with  their  style,  and  with  an 
exact  language  we  find  the  commencement  of  a  new  age 
and  a  new  art. 

Side  hy  side  with  prettiness  comes  affectation ;  it  is 
the  second  mark  of  the  decadence.  Instead  of  writing  to 
express  things,  they  write  to  say  them  well ;  they  outbid 
their  neighbours,  and  strain  every  mode  of  speech ;  they 
push  art  over  on  the  side  to  which  it  had  a  leaning ; 
and  as  in  this  age  it  had  a  leaning  towards  vehemence 
and  imagination,  they  pile  up  their  emphasis  and 
colouring.  A  jargon  always  springs  out  of  a  style.  In 
all  arts,  the  first  masters,  the  inventors,  discover  the 
idea,  steep  themselves  in  it,  and  leave  it  to  effect  its 
outward  form.  Then  come  the  second  class,  the  imita- 
tors, who  sedulously  repeat  this  form,  and  alter  it  by 
exaggeration.  Some  nevertheless  have  talent,  as  Quarles, 
Herbert,  Habington,  Donne  in  particular,  a  pungent 
satirist,  of  terrible  crudeness,1  a  powerful  poet,  of  a  pre- 
cise and  intense  imagination,  who  still  preserves  some- 
thing of  the  energy  and  thrill  of  the  original  inspiration.2 

1  See,  in  particular,  his  satire  against  courtiers.  The  following  is 
against  imitators. 

"  But  he  is  worst,  who  (beggarly)  doth  chaw 
Others  wit's  fruits,  and  in  his  ravenous  maw 
Rankly  digested,  doth  those  things  out-spew, 
As  his  owne  things  ;  and  they  're  his  owne,  't  is  true, 
For  if  one  eate  my  meate,  though  it  be  knowne 
The  meat  was  mine,  th*  excrement  is  his  owne." 

DONNE'S  Satires,  1639.     Satire  ii.  p.  128. 

a  "  When  I  behold  a  stream,  which  from  the  spring 
Doth  with  doubtful  melodious  murmuring, 
Or  in  a  speechless  slumber  calmly  ride 
Her  wedded  channel's  bosom,  and  there  chide 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  327 

But  he  deliberately  spoils  all  these  gifts,  and  succeeds 
with  great  difficulty  in  concocting  a  piece  of  nonsense. 
For  instance,  the  impassioned  poets  had  said  to  their 
mistress,  that  if  they  lost  her,  they  should  hate  all  other 
women.  Donne,  in  order  to  eclipse  them,  says : 

"  0  do  not  die,  for  I  shall  hate 
All  women  so,  when  thou  art  gone, 
That  thee  I  shall  not  celebrate 
When  I  remember  thou  wast  one." J 

Twenty  times  while  reading  him  we  rub  our  brow,  and 
ask  with  astonishment,  how  a  man  could  have  so  tor- 
mented and  contorted  himself,  strained  his  style,  refined 
on  his  refinement,  hit  upon  such  absurd  comparisons  ? 
But  this  was  the  spirit  of  the  age ;  they  made  an  effort 
to  be  ingeniously  absurd.  A  flea  had  bitten  Donne  and 
his  mistress,  and  he  says :  - 

"  This  flea  is  you  and  I,  and  this 
Our  manage  bed  and  mariage  temple  is. 
Though  Parents  grudge,  and  you,  w*  are  met, 
And  cloyster'd  in  these  living  walls  of  Jet. 
Though  use  make  you  apt  to  kill  me, 
Let  not  to  that  selfe-murder  added  be, 
And  sacrilege,  three  sins  in  killing  three."  * 

And  bend  her  brows,  and  swell,  if  any  bough 

Does  but  stoop  down  to  kiss  her  utmost  brow  ; 

Yet  if  her  often  gnawing  kisses  win 

The  traiterous  banks  to  gape  and  let  her  in, 

She  rusheth  violently  and  doth  divorce 

Her  from  her  native  and  her  long  kept-course, 

And  roares,  and  braves  it,  and  in  gallant  scorn 

In  flatt'ring  eddies  promising  return, 

She  flouts  her  channel,  which  thenceforth  is  dry, 

Then  say  I  :  That  is  she,  and  this  am  I." — DONNE,  Eleyyvi 

1  Poems,  1639  :  A  Feaver,  p.  15.  8  Ibid.  The  Flea,  p.  1. 


328  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

The  Marquis  de  Mascarille1  never  found  anything  to 
equal  this.  Would  you  have  believed  a  writer  could 
invent  such  absurdities  ?  She  and  he  made  but  one, 
for  both  are  but  one  with  the  flea,  and  so  one  could  not 
be  killed  without  the  other.  Observe  that  the  wise 
Malherbe  wrote  very  similar  enormities,  in  the  Tears 
of  St.  Peter,  and  that  the  sonneteers  of  Italy  and  Spain 
reach  simultaneously  the  same  height  of  folly,  and  you 
will  agree  that  throughout  Europe  at  that  time  they  were 
at  the  close  of  a  poetical  epoch. 

On  this  boundary  line  of  a  closing  and  a  dawning 
literature  a  poet  appeared,  one  of  the  most  approved  and 
illustrious  of  his  time,  Abraham  Cowley,2  a  precocious 
child,  a  reader  and  a  versifier  like  Pope,  and  who,  like 
Pope,  having  known  passions  less  than  books,  busied 
himself  less  about  things  than  about  words.  Literary 
exhaustion  has  seldom  been  more  manifest.  He  pos- 
sesses all  the  capacity  to  say  whatever  pleases  him,  but 
he  has  precisely  nothing  to  say.  The  substance  has 
vanished,  leaving  in  its  place  an  empty  form.  In  vain 
he  tries  the  epic,  the  Pindaric  strophe,  all  kinds  of 
stanzas,  odes,  short  lines,  long  lines ;  in  vain  he  calls  to 
his  assistance  botanical  and  philosophical  similes,  all  the 
erudition  of  the  university,  all  the  recollections  of  anti- 
quity, all  the  ideas  of  new  science :  we  yawn  as  we 
read  him.  Except  in  a  few  descriptive  verses,  two  or 
three  graceful  tendernesses,3  he  feels  nothing,  he  speaks 
only ;  he  is  a  poet  of  the  brain.  His  collection  of 

1  A  valet  in  Moliere's  Les  Prfcieuses  Ridicules,  who  apes  and  exagge- 
rates his  master's  manners  and  style,  and  pretends  to  be  a  marquess. 
He  also  appears  in  L'Etourdi  and  Le  d6pit  Amour  eux,  by  the  same 
author. — TR, 

3  1608-1667.     I  refer  to  the  eleventh  edition  of  1710. 

1  The  Spring  (The  Mistress,  i  72). 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  EENAISSANCE.  329 

amorous  pieces  is  but  a  vehicle  for  a  scientific  test,  and 
serves  to  show  that  he  has  read  the  authors,  that  he 
knows  geography,  that  he  is  well  versed  in  anatomy, 
that  he  has  a  smattering  of  medicine  and  astronomy,  that 
he  has  at  his  service  comparisons  and  allusions  enough 
to  rack  the  brains  of  his  readers.  He  will  speak  in  this 
wise  : 

"  Beauty,  thou  active — passive  111 ! 
Which  dy'st  thyself  as  fast  as  thou  dost  kill ! " 

or  will  remark  that  his  mistress  is  to  blame  for 
spending  three  hours  every  morning  at  her  toilet, 
because 

"  They  make  that  Beauty  Tyranny, 
That's  else  a  Civil-government." 

After  reading  two  hundred,  pages,  you  feel  disposed  to 
box  his  ears.  You  have  to  think,  by  way  of  consolation, 
that  every  grand  age  must  draw  to  a  close,  that  this  one 
could  not  do  so  otherwise,  that  the  old  glow  of  enthu- 
siasm, the  sudden  flood  of  rapture,  images,  whimsical 
and  audacious  fancies,  which  once  rolled  through  the 
minds  of  men,  arrested  now  and  cooled  down,  could  only 
exhibit  dross,  a  curdling  scum,  a  multitude  of  brilliant 
and  offensive  points.  You  say  to  yourself  that,  after 
all,  Cowley  had  perhaps  talent ;  you  find  that  he  had  in 
fact  one,  a  new  talent,  unknown  to  the  old  masters,  the 
sign  of  a  new  culture,  which  needs  other  manners,  and 
announces  a  new  society.  Cowley  had  these  manners, 
and  belongs  to  this  society.  He  was  a  well- governed, 
reasonable,  well-informed,  polished,  well-educated  man, 
who  after  twelve  years  of  service  and  writing  in  France, 
under  Queen  Henrietta,  retires  at  last  wisely  into  the 
country,  where  he  studies  natural  history,  and  prepares 


330  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  11. 

a  treatise  on  religion,  philosophising  on  men  and  life, 
fertile  in  general  reflections  and  ideas,  a  moralist,  bidding 
his  executor  "  to  let  nothing  stand  in  his  writings  which 
might  seem  the  least  in  the  world  to  be  an  offence 
against  religion  or  good  manners."  Such  intentions  and 
such  a  life  produce  and  indicate  less  a  poet,  that  is,  a 
seer,  a  creator,  than  a  literary  man,  I  mean  a  man  who 
can  think  and  speak,  and  who  therefore  ought  to  have 
read  much,  learned  much,  written  much,  ought  to  pos- 
sess a  calm  and  clear  mind,  to  be  accustomed  to  polite 
society,  sustained  conversation,  pleasantry.  In  fact, 
Cowley  is  an  author  by  profession,  the  oldest  of  those, 
who  in  England  deserve  the  name.  His  prose  is  as 
easy  and  sensible  as  his  poetry  is  contorted  and  unreason- 
able. A  polished  man,  writing  for  polished  men,  pretty 
much  as  he  would  speak  to  them  in  a  drawing-room, — 
this  I  take  to  be  the  idea  which  they  had  of  a  good 
author  in  the  seventeenth  century.  It  is  the  idea  which 
Cowley's  Essays  leave  of  his  character ;  it  is  the  kind 
of  talent  which  the  writers  of  the  coming  age  take  for 
their  model ;  and  he  is  the  first  of  that  grave  and  ami- 
able group  which,  continued  in  Temple,  reaches  so  far 
as  to  include  Addison. 

II. 

Having  reached  this  point,  the  Eenaissance  seemed 
to  have  attained  its  limit,  and,  like  a  drooping  and  faded 
flower,  to  be  ready  to  leave  its  place  for  a  new  bud  which 
began  to  spring  up  amongst  its  withered  leaves.  At  all 
events,  a  living  and  unexpected  shoot  sprang  from  the 
old  declining  stock.  At  the  moment  when  art  lan- 
guished, science  shot  forth  ;  the  whole  labour  of  the  age 
ended  in  this.  The  fruits  are  not  unlike ;  on  the  con- 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  331 

trary,  they  come  from  the  same  sap,  and  by  the  diversity 
of  the  shape  only  manifest  two  distinct  periods  of  the 
inner  growth  which  has  produced  them.  Every  art 
ends  in  a  science,  and  all  poetry  in  a  philosophy.  For 
science  and  philosophy  do  but  translate  into  precise 
formulas  the  original  conceptions  which  art  and  poetry 
render  sensible  by  imaginary  figures :  when  once  the 
idea  of  an  epoch  is  manifested  in  verse  by  ideal  crea- 
tions, it  naturally  comes  to  be  expressed  in  prose  by 
positive  arguments.  That  which  had  struck  men  on 
escaping  from  ecclesiastical  oppression  and  monkish  as- 
ceticism was  the  pagan  idea  of  a  life  true  to  nature,  and 
freely  developed.  They  had  found  nature  buried  behind 
scholasticism,  and  they  had  expressed  it  in  poems  and 
paintings;  in  Italy  by  superb  healthy  corporeality,  in 
England  by  vehement  and  unconventional  spirituality, 
with  such  divination  of  its  laws,  instincts,  and  forms, 
that  we  might  extract  from  their  theatre  and  their  pic- 
tures a  complete  theory  of-  soul  and  body.  When 
enthusiasm  is  past,  curiosity  begins.  The  sentiment  of 
beauty  gives  way  to  the  need  of  truth.  The  theory 
contained  in  works  of  imagination  frees  itself.  The 
gaze  continues  fixed  on  nature,  not  to  admire  now,  but 
to  understand.  From  painting  we  pass  to  anatomy, 
from  the  drama  to  moral  philosophy,  from  grand  poetical 
divinations  to  great  scientific  views ;  the  second  continue 
the  first,  and  the  same  mind  displays  itself  in  both ; 
for  what  art  had  represented,  and  science  proceeds  to 
observe,  are  living  things,  with  their  complex  and  com- 
plete structure,  set  in  motion  by  their  internal  forces, 
with  no  supernatural  intervention.  Artists  and  savants, 
all  set  out,  without  knowing  it  themselves,  from  the 
same  master  conception,  to  wit,  that  nature  subsists  of 


332  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

herself,  that  every  existence  has  in  its  own  womb  the 
source  of  its  action,  that  the  causes  of  events  are  the 
innate  laws  of  things ;  an  all-powerful  idea,  from  which 
was  to  issue  the  modern  civilisation,  and  which,  at  the 
time  I  write  of,  produced  in  England  and  Italy,  as  be- 
fore in  Greece,  genuine  sciences,  side  by  side  with  a 
complete  art:  after  da  Vinci  and  Michel  Angelo,  the 
school  of  anatomists,  mathematicians,  naturalists,  ending 
with  Galileo;  after  Spenser,  Ben  Jonson,  and  Shaks- 
peare,  the  school  of  thinkers  who  surround  Bacon  and 
lead  up  to  Harvey. 

"We  have  not  far  to  look  for  this  school.  In  the 
interregnum  of  Christianity  the  dominating  bent  of 
mind  belongs  to  it.  It  was  paganism  which  reigned 
in  Elizabeth's  court,  not  only  in  letters,  but  in  doctrine, 
— a  paganism  of  the  north,  always  serious,  generally 
sombre,  but  which  was  based,  like  that  of  the  south,  on 
natural  forces.  In  some  men  all  Christianity  had  passed 
away ;  many  proceeded  to  atheism  through  excess  of 
rebellion  and  debauchery,  like  Marlowe  and  Greene. 
With  others,  like  Shakspeare,  the  idea  of  God  scarcely 
makes  its  appearance ;  they  see  in  our  poor  short  human 
life  only  a  dream,  and  beyond  it  the  long  sad  sleep : 
for  them,  death  is  the  goal  of  life;  at  most  a  dark 
gulf,  into  which  man  plunges,  uncertain  of  the  issue. 
If  they  carry  their  gaze  beyond,  they  perceive,1  not 
the  spiritual  soul  welcomed  into  a  purer  world,  but  the 
corpse  abandoned  to  the  damp  earth,  or  the  ghost  hover- 
ing about  the  churchyard.  They  speak  like  sceptics  or 
superstitious  men,  never  as  true  believers.  Their  heroes 

1  See  in  Shakspeare,  The  Tempest,  Measure  for  Measure,  Hamlet :  in 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Thierry  and  Theodoret,  Act  iv.  ;  Webster, 
passim. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  333 

have  human,  not  religious  virtues ;  against  crime  they 
rely  on  honour  and  the  love  of  the  beautiful,  not  on 
piety  and  the  fear  of  God.  If  others,  at  intervals,  like 
Sidney  and  Spenser,  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Divine,  it 
is  as  a  vague  ideal  light,  a  sublime  Platonic  phantom, 
which  has  no  resemblance  to  a  personal  God,  a  strict 
inquisitor  of  the  slightest  motions  of  the  heart.  He 
appears  at  the  summit  of  things,  like  the  splendid 
crown  of  the  world,  but  He  does  not  weigh  upon  human 
life ;  He  leaves  it  intact  and  free,  only  turning  it 
towards  the  beautiful.  Man  does  not  know  as  yet  the 
sort  of  narrow  prison  in  which  official  cant  and  respect- 
able creeds  were,  later  on,  to  confine  activity  and  in- 
telligence. Even  the  believers,  sincere  Christians  like 
Bacon  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  discard  all  oppressive 
sternness,  reduce  Christianity  to  a  sort  of  moral  poetry, 
and  allow  naturalism  to  subsist  beneath  religion.  In  such 
a  broad  and  open  channel,  speculation  could  spread  its 
wings.  With  Lord  Herbert  appeared  a  systematic 
deism  ;  with  Milton  and  Algernon  Sidney,  a  philo- 
sophical religion  ;  Clarendon  went  so  far  as  to  compare 
Lord  Falkland's  gardens  to  the  groves  of  Academe. 
Against  the  rigorism  of  the  Puritans,  Chillingworth, 
Hales,  Hooker,  the  greatest  doctors  of  the  English 
Church,  give  a  large  place  to  natural  reason, — so  large, 
that  never,  even  to  this  day,  has  it  made  such  an 
advance. 

An  astonishing  irruption  of  facts — the  discovery  of 
America,  the  revival  of  antiquity,  the  restoration  of 
philology,  the  invention  of  the  arts,  the  development  of 
industries,  the  march  of  human  curiosity  over  the  whole 
of  the  past  and  the  whole  of  the  globe — came  to  furnish 
subject-matter,  and  prose  began  its  reign.  Sidney 


334  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

Wilson,  Ascham,  and  Puttenham  explored  the  rules  of 
style ;  Hackluyt  and  Purchas  compiled  the  cyclopaedia 
of  travel  and  the  description  of  every  land  ;  Holinshed, 
Speed,  Raleigh,  Stowe,  Knolles,  Daniel,  Thomas  May, 
Lord  Herbert,  founded  history ;  Camden,  Spelman, 
Cotton,  Usher,  and  Selden  inaugurate  scholarship ;  a 
legion  of  patient  workers,  of  obscure  collectors,  of  literary 
pioneers,  amassed,  arranged,  and  sifted  the  documents 
which  Sir  Robert  Cotton  and  Sir  Thomas  Bodley  stored 
up  in  their  libraries ;  whilst  Utopians,  moralists,  painters 
of  manners — Thomas  More,  Joseph  Hall,  John  Earle, 
Owen  Feltham,  Burton — described  and  passed  judgment 
on  the  modes  of  life,  continued  with  Fuller,  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  and  Isaac  Walton  up  to  the  middle  of  the  next 
century,  and  add  to  the  number  of  controversialists  and 
politicians  who,  with  Hooker,  Taylor,  Chillingworth, 
Algernon  Sidney,  Harrington,  study  religion,  society, 
church  and  state.  A  copious  and  confused  fermenta- 
tion, from  which  abundance  of  thoughts  rose,  but  few 
notable  books.  Noble  prose,  such  as  was  heard  at  the 
court  of  Louis  XIV.,  in  the  house  of  Pollio,  in  the 
schools  at  Athens,  such  as  rhetorical  and  sociable  nations 
know  how  to  produce,  was  altogether  lacking.  These 
men  had  not  the  spirit  of  analysis,  the  art  of  following 
step  by  step  the  natural  order  of  ideas,  nor  the  spirit  of 
conversation,  the  talent  never  to  weary  or  shock  others. 
Their  imagination  is  too  little  regulated,  and  their 
manners  too  little  polished.  They  who  had  mixed  most 
in  the  world,  even  Sidney,  speak  roughly  what  they 
think,  and  as  they  think  it.  Instead  of  glossing  they 
exaggerate.  They  blurt  out  all,  and  withhold  nothing. 
When  they  do  not  employ  excessive  compliments,  they 
take  to  coarse  jokes.  They  are  ignorant  of  measured 


OHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  335 

liveliness,  refined  raillery,  delicate  flattery.  They  re- 
joice in  gross  puns,  dirty  allusions.  They  mistake  in- 
volved charades  and  grotesque  images  for  wit.  Though 
they  are  great  lords  and  ladies,  they  talk  like  ill-bred 
persons,  lovers  of  buffoonery,  of  shows,  and  bear-fights. 
With  some,  as  Overbury  or  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  prose  is 
so  much  run  over  by  poetry,  that  it  covers  its  narrative 
with  images,  and  hides  ideas  under  its  pictures.  They 
load  their  style  with  flowery  comparisons,  which  produce 
one  another,  and  mount  one  above  another,  so  that  sense 
disappears,  and  ornament  only  is  visible.  In  short, 
they  are  generally  pedants,  still  stiff  with  the  rust  of 
the  school ;  they  divide  and  subdivide,  propound  theses, 
definitions ;  they  argue  solidly  and  heavily,  and  quote 
their  authors  in  Latin,  and  even  in  Greek ;  they  square 
their  massive  periods,  and  learnedly  knock  their  adver- 
saries down,  and  their  readers  too,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence. They  are  never  on  the  prose-level,  but  always 
above  or  below — above  by  their  poetic  genius,  below 
by  the  weight  of  their  education  and  the  barbarism  of 
their  manners.  But  they  think  seriously  and  for  them- 
selves ;  they  are  deliberate ;  they  are  convinced  and 
touched  by  what  they  say.  Even  in  the  compiler  we 
find  a  force  and  loyalty  of  spirit,  which  give  confidence 
and  cause  pleasure.  Their  writings  are  like  the  power- 
ful and  heavy  engravings  of  their  contemporaries,  the 
maps  of  Hofnagel  for  instance,  so  harsh  and  so  instruc- 
tive ;  their  conception  is  sharp  and  clear ;  they  have 
the  gift  of  perceiving  every  object,  not  under  a  general 
aspect,  like  the  classical  writers,  but  specially  and 
individually.  It  is  not  man  in  the  abstract,  the  citizen 
as  he  is  everywhere,  the  countryman  as  such,  that  they 
represent,  but  James  or  Thomas,  Smith  or  Brown,  of 


336  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

such  a  parish,  from  such  an  office,  with  such  and  such 
attitude  or  dress,  distinct  from  all  others ;  in  short,  they 
see,  not  the  idea,  but  the  individual.  Imagine  the 
disturbance  that  such  a  disposition  produces  in  a  man's 
head,  how  the  regular  order  of  ideas  becomes  deranged 
by  it ;  how  every  object,  with  the  infinite  medley  of  its 
forms,  properties,  appendages,  will  thenceforth  fasten 
itself  by  a  hundred  points  of  contact  unforeseen  to 
other  objects,  and  bring  before  the  mind  a  series  and 
a  family ;  what  boldness  language  will  derive  from  it ; 
what  familiar,  picturesque,  absurd  words,  will  break 
forth  in  succession;  how  the  dash,  the  unforeseen,  the 
originality  and  inequality  of  invention,  will  stand  out. 
Imagine,  at  the  same  time,  what  a  hold  this  form  of 
mind  has  on  objects,  how  many  facts  it  condenses  in 
each  conception;  what  a  mass  of  personal  judgments, 
foreign  authorities,  suppositions,  guesses,  imaginations, 
it  spreads  over  every  subject ;  with  what  venturesome 
and  creative  fecundity  it  engenders  both  truth  and 
conjecture.  It  is  an  extraordinary  chaos  of  thoughts 
and  forms,  often  abortive,  still  more  often  barbarous, 
sometimes  grand.  But  from  this  superfluity  something 
lasting  and  great  is  produced,  namely  science,  and  we 
have  only  to  examine  more  closely  into  one  or  two  of 
these  works  to  see  the  new  creation  emerge  from  the 
blocks  and  the  debris. 

III. 

Two  writers  especially  display  this  state  of  mind. 
The  first,  Robert  Burton,  a  clergyman  and  university 
recluse,  who  passed  his  life  in  libraries,  and  dabbled  in 
all  the  sciences,  as  learned  as  Kabelais,  having  an 
inexhaustible  and  overflowing  memory ;  unequal,  more- 


V-T.  P-336. 


WILLIAM    CAMDEN 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  337 

over,  gifted  with  enthusiasm,  and  spasmodically  gay, 
but  as  a  rule  sad  and  morose,  to  the  extent  of  confessing 
in  his  epitaph  that  melancholy  made  up  his  life  and 
his  death ;  in  the  first  place  original,  liking  his  own 
common  sense,  and  one  of  the  earliest  models  of  that 
singular  English  mood  which,  withdrawing  man  within 
himself,  develops  in  him,  at  one  time  imagination,  at 
another  scrupulosity,  at  another  oddity,  and  makes  of 
him,  according  to  circumstances,  a  poet,  an  eccentric,  a 
humorist,  a  madman,  or  a  puritan.  He  read  on  for 
thirty  years,  put  an  encyclopaedia  into  his  head,  and 
now,  to  amuse  and  relieve  himself,  takes  a  folio  of 
blank  paper.  Twenty  lines  of  a  poet,  a  dozen  lines  of 
a  treatise  on  agriculture,  a  folio  page  of  heraldry,  a 
description  of  rare  fishes,  a  paragraph  of  a  sermon  on 
patience,  the  record  of  the  fever  fits  of  hypochondria, 
the  history  of  the  particle  that,  a  scrap  of  metaphysics, 
— this  is  what  passes  through  his  brain  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour :  it  is  a  carnival  of  ideas  and  phrases,  Greek, 
Latin,  German,  French,  Italian,  philosophical,  geometri- 
cal, medical,  poetical,  astrological,  musical,  pedagogic, 
heaped  one  on  the  other;  an  enormous  medley,  a  pro- 
digious mass  of  jumbled  quotations,  jostling  thoughts, 
with  the  vivacity  and  the  transport  of  a  feast  of  un- 
reason. 

"  This  roving  humour  (though  not  with  like  success)  I  have 
ever  had,  and,  like  a  ranging  spaniel  that  barks  at  every  bird  he 
sees,  leaving  his  game,  I  have  followed  all,  saving  that  which 
I  should,  and  may  justly  complain,  and  truly,  qui  ubique  est,  nus- 
quam  est,  which  Gesner  did  in  modesty,  that  I  have  read  many 
books,  but  to  little  purpose,  for  want  of  good  method,  I  have 
confusedly  tumbled  over  divers  authors  in  our  libraries  with 
small  profit,  for  want  of  art,  order,  memory,  judgment  I 

VOL.  L  Z 


338  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

never  travelled  but  in  map  or  card,  in  which  my  unconfined 
thoughts  have  freely  expatiated,  *as  having  ever  been  especially 
delighted  with  the  study  of  cosmography.  Saturn  was  lord  of 
my  geniture,  culminating,  etc.,  and  Mars  principal  significator 
of  manners,  in  partile  conjunction  with  mine  ascendent ;  both 
fortunate  in  their  houses,  etc.  I  am  not  poor,  I  am  not  rich ; 
nihil  est,  nihil  deest ;  I  have  little ;  I  want  nothing :  all  my 
treasure  is  in  Minerva's  tower.  Greater  preferment  as  I  could 
never  get,  so  am  I  not  in  debt  for  it.  I  have  a  competency 
(laus  Deo)  from  my  noble  and  munificent  patrons.  Though  I 
live  still  a  collegiat  student,  as  Democritus  in  his  garden,  and 
lead  a  monastique  life,  ipse  mihi  theatmm,  sequestred  from  those 
tumults  and  troubles  of  the  world,  et  tanquam  in  speculd  positus 
(as  he  said),  in  some  high  place  above  you  all,  like  Stofcus 
sapiens,  omnia  s&cula  pr&terita  prcesentiaque  videns,  uno  velut 
intuitu,  I  hear  and  see  what  is  done  abroad,  how  others  run, 
ride,  turmoil,  and  macerate  themselves  in  court  and  countrey. 
Far  from  these  wrangling  lawsuits,  aulce  vanitatem,  fori  ambi- 
tionem,  ridere  mecum  soleo :  I  laugh  at  all,  only  secure,  lest  my 
suit  go  amiss,  my  ships  perish,  corn  and  cattle  miscarry,  trade 
decay ;  I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  provide  for ; 
a  mere  spectator  of  other  men's  fortunes  and  adventures,  and 
how  they  act  their  parts,  which  methinks  are  diversely  pre- 
sented unto  me,  as  from  a  common  theatre  or  scene.  I  hear 
new  news  every  day  :  and  those  ordinary  rumours  of  war, 
plagues,  fires,  inundations,  thefts,  murders,  massacres,  meteors, 
comets,  spectrums,  prodigies,  apparitions ;  of  towns  taken,  cities 
besieged  in  France,  Germany,  Turkey,  Persia,  Poland,  etc.,  daily 
musters  and  preparations,  and  such  like,  which  these  tempes- 
tuous times  afford,  battles  fought,  so  many  men  slain,  mouo- 
machies,  shipwracks,  piracies,  and  sea-fights,  peace,  leagues, 
stratagems,  and  fresh  alarms — a  vast  confusion  of  vows,  wishes, 
actions,  edicts,  petitions,  lawsuits,  pleas,  laws,  proclamations, 
complaints,  grievances, — are  daily  brought  to  our  ears :  new 
books  every  day,  pamphlets,  currantoes,  stories,  whole  catalogues 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  339 

of  volumes  of  all  sorts,  new  paradoxes,  opinions,  schisms,  here- 
sies, controversies  in  philosophy,  religion,  etc.  Now  come  tid- 
ings of  weddings,  maskings,  mummeries,  entertainments,  jubilies, 
embassies,  tilts  and  tournaments,  trophies,  triumphs,  revels, 
sports,  playes  :  then  again,  as  in  a  new  shifted  scene,  treasons, 
cheating  tricks,  robberies,  enormous  villanies  in  all  kinds, 
funerals,  burials,  death  of  princes,  new  discoveries,  expeditions ; 
now  comical,  then  tragical  matters.  To-day  we  hear  of  new 
lords  and  officers  created,  to-morrow  of  some  great  men  deposed, 
and  then  again  of  fresh  honours  conferred  :  one  is  let  loose, 
another  imprisoned :  one  purchaseth,  another  breaketh :  he 
thrives,  his  neighbour  turns  bankrupt ;  now  plenty,  then  again 
dearth  and  famine ;  one  runs,  another  rides,  wrangles,  laughs, 
weeps,  etc.  Thus  I  daily  hear,  and  such  like,  both  private  and 
publick  news."  l 

"  For  what  a  world  of  books  offers  itself,  in  all  subjects,  arts, 
and  sciences,  to  the  sweet  content  and  capacity  of  the  reader? 
In  arithmetick,  geometry,  perspective,  optick,  astronomy,  archi- 
tecture, sculptura,  pictura,  of  which  so  many  and  such  elaborate 
treatises  are  of  late  written  :  in  mechanicks  and  their  mysteries, 
military  matters,  navigation,  riding  of  horses,  fencing,  swim- 
ming, gardening,  planting,  great  tomes  of  husbandry,  cookery, 
faulconry,  hunting,  fishing,  fowling,  etc.,  with  exquisite  pictures 
of  all  sports,  games,  and  what  not.  In  musick,  metaphysicks, 
natural  and  moral  philosophy,  philologie,  in  policy,  heraldry, 
genealogy,  chronology,  etc.,  they  afford  great  tomes,  or  those 
studies  of  antiquity,  etc.,  et  quid  subtilius  arithmetic-is  inventioni- 
bus  ?  quid  jucundius  musicis  rationibus  ?  quid  divinius  astronomi- 
cis  ?  quid  rectius  yeometricis  demonstrationibus  ?  What  so  sure, 
what  so  pleasant  1  He  that  shall  but  see  the  geometrical  tower 
of  Garezenda  at  Bologne  in  Italy,  the  steeple  and  clock  at  Stras- 
borough,  will  admire  the  effects  of  art,  or  that  engine  of  Archi- 
medes to  remove  the  earth  itself,  if  he  had  but  a  place  to  fasten 

1  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  12th  ed.  1821,  2  vols.  :  Democritus  to 
the  Reader,  i.  4. 


340  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

his  instrument.  Archimedis  cochlea,  aud  rare  devises  to  corrivate 
waters,  musick  instruments,  and  trisyllable  echoes  again,  again, 
and  again  repeated,  with  miriades  of  such.  What  vast  tomes 
are  extant  in  law,  physick,  and  divinity,  for  profit,  pleasure, 
practice,  speculation,  in  verse  or  prose,  etc. !  Their  names  alone 
are  the  subject  of  whole  volumes  ;  we  have  thousands  of  authors 
of  all  sorts,  many  great  libraries,  full  well  furnished,  like  so 
many  dishes  of  meat,  served  out  for  several  palates,  aud  he  is  a 
very  block  that  is  affected  with  none  of  them.  Some  take  an 
infinite  delight  to  study  the  very  languages  wherein  these  books 
.are  written — Hebrew,  Greek,  Syriack,  Chalde,  Arabick,  etc. 
Methinks  it  would  well  please  any  man  to  look  upon  a  geographi- 
cal map  (suavi  animum  delectalione  allicere,  ob  incredibilem  rerum 
varietatem  et  jucunditatem,  et  ad  pleniorem  sui  cognitionem  excitare), 
chorographical,  topographical  delineations ;  to  behold,  as  it  were, 
all  the  remote  provinces,  towns,  cities  of  the  world,  and  never 
to  go  forth  of  the  limits  of  his  study ;  to  measure,  by  the  scale 
and  compasse,  their  extent,  distance,  examine  their  site. 
Charles  the  Great  (as  Platina  writes)  had  three  faire  silver 
tables,  in  one  of  which  superficies  was  a  large  map  of  Con- 
stantinople, in  the  second  Rome  neatly  engraved,  in  the  third 
an  exquisite  description  of  the  whole  world  ;  and  much  delight 
he  took  in  them.  What  greater  pleasure  can  there  now  be, 
than  to  view  those  elaborate  maps  of  Ortelius,  Mercator,  Hon 
dius,  etc.  ?  to  peruse  those  books  of  cities  put  out  by  Braunus 
and  Hogenbergius  ?  to  read  those  exquisite  descriptions  of 
Maginus,  Munster,  Herrera,  Laet,  Merula,  Boterus,  Leander 
Albertus,  Camden,  Leo  Afer,  Adricomius,  Nic.  Gerbelius,  etc.  1 
those  famous  expeditions  of  Christopher  Columbus,  Americus 
Vespucius,  Marcus  Polus  the  Venetian,  Lod.  Vertomannus, 
Aloysius  Cadamustus,  etc.  ?  those  accurate  diaries  of  Portugals, 
Hollanders,  of  Bartison,  Oliver  a  Nort,  etc.,  Hacluit's  Voyages, 
Pet.  Martyr's  Decades,  Benzo,  Lerius,  Linschoten's  relations, 
those  Hodaeporicons  of  Jod.  a  Meggen,  Brocarde  the  Monke, 
Bredenbachius,  Jo.  Dublmius,  Sands,  etc.,  to  Jerusalem,  Egypt, 


JHAI>.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  341 

and  other  remote  places  of  the  world  ?  those  pleasaut  itineraries 
of  Paulus  Hentzerus,  Jodocus  Sincerus,  Dux  Pojonus,  etc.  ?  to 
read  Bellonius  observations,  P.  Gillius  his  survayes ;  those  parts 
of  America,  set  out,  and  curiously  cut  in  pictures,  by  Fratres  a 
Bry  ?  To  see  a  well  cut  herbal,  hearbs,  trees,  flowers,  plants, 
all  vegetals,  expressed  in  their  proper  colours  to  the  life,  as  that 
of  Matthiolus  upon  Dioscorides,  Delacampius,  Lobel,  Bauhinus, 
and  that  last  voluminous  and  mighty  herbal  of  Besler  of  Nor- 
emberge ;  wherein  almost  every  plant  is  to  his  own  bignesse. 
To  see  birds,  beasts,  and  fishes  of  the  sea,  spiders,  gnats, 
serpents,  flies,  etc.,  all  creatures  set  out  by  the  same  art,  and 
truly  expressed  in  lively  colours,  with  an  exact  description  of 
their  natures,  vertues,  qualities,  etc.,  as  hath  been  accurately 
performed  by  jElian,  Gesner,  Ulysses  Aldrovandus,  Bellonius, 
Rondoletius,  Hippolytus  Salvianus,  etc."  l 

He  is  never-ending;  words,  phrases,  overflow,  are 
heaped  up,  overlap  each  other,  and  flow  on,  carrying 
the  reader  along,  deafened,  stunned,  half-drowned, 
unable  to  touch  ground  in  the  deluge.  Burton  is 
inexhaustible.  There  are  no  ideas  which  he  does  not 
iterate  under  fifty  forms :  when  he  has  exhausted  his 
own,  he  pours  out  upon  us  other  men's — the  classics, 
the  rarest  authors,  known  only  by  savants — authors 
rarer  still,  known  only  to  the  learned  ;  he  borrows  from 
all.  Underneath  these  deep  caverns  of  erudition  and 
science,  there  is  one  blacker  and  more  unknown  than 
all  the  others,  filled  with  forgotten  authors,  with  crack- 
jaw  names,  Besler  of  Nuremberg,  Adricomius,  Linschoten, 
Brocarde,  Bredenbachius.  Amidst  all  these  antediluvian 
monsters,  bristling  with  Latin  terminations,  he  is  at 
his  ease ;  he  sports  with  them,  laughs,  skips  from  one 
to  the  other,  drives  them  all  abreast.  He  is  like  old 

1  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  i.  part  2,  sec.  2,  Mem.  4,  p.  420,  d  passim. 


342  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

Proteus,  the  sturdy  rover,  who  in  one  hour,  with  his 
team  of  hippopotami,  makes  the  circuit  of  the  ocean. 

What  subject  does  he  take  ?  Melancholy,  his  own 
individual  mood ;  and  he  takes  it  like  a  schoolman. 
None  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas'  treatises  is  more  regularly 
constructed  than  his.  This  torrent  of  erudition  flows  in 
geometrically  planned  channels,  turning  off  at  right 
angles  without  deviating  by  a  line.  At  the  head  of 
every  part  you  will  find  a  synoptical  and  analytical  table, 
with  hyphens,  brackets,  each  division  begetting  its 
subdivisions,  each  subdivision  its  sections,  each  section 
its  subsections :  of  the  malady  in  general,  of  melan- 
choly in  particular,  of  its  nature,  its  seat,  its  varieties, 
causes,  symptoms,  prognosis  ;  of  its  cure  by  permissible 
means,  by  forbidden  means,  by  dietetic  means,  by 
pharmaceutical  means.  After  the  scholastic  process, 
he  descends  from  the  general  to  the  particular,  and 
disposes  each  emotion  and  idea  in  its  labelled  case. 
In  this  framework,  supplied  by  the  middle-age,  he 
heaps  up  the  whole,  like  a  man  of  the  Renaissance, — 
the  literary  description  of  passions  and  the  medical 
description  of  madness,  details  of  the  hospital  with  a 
satire  on  human  follies,  physiological  treatises  side  by 
side  with  personal  confidences,  the  recipes  of  the  apothe- 
cary with  moral  counsels,  remarks  on  love  with  the 
history  of  evacuations.  The  discrimination  of  ideas 
has  not  yet  been  effected;  doctor  and  poet,  man  of 
letters  and  savant,  he  is  all  at  once ;  for  want  of  dams, 
ideas  pour  like  different  liquids  into  the  same  vat,  with 
strange  spluttering  and  bubbling,  with  an  unsavoury 
smell  and  odd  effect.  But  the  vat  is  full,  and  from 
this  admixture  are  produced  potent  compounds  which 
no  preceding  age  has  known. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  343 

IV. 

For  in  this  mixture  there  is  an  effectual  leaven,  the 
poetic  sentiment,  which  stirs  up  and  animates  the  vast 
erudition,  which  will  not  be  confined  to  dry  catalogues ; 
which,  interpreting  every  fact,  every  object,  disentangles 
or  divines  a  mysterious  soul  within  it,  and  agitates  the 
whole  mind  of  man,  by  representing  to  him  the  restless 
world  within  and  without  him  as  a  grand  enigma. 
Let  us  conceive  a  kindred  mind  to  Shakspeare's,  a 
scholar  and  an  observer  instead  of  an  actor  and  a  poet, 
who  in  place  of  creating  is  occupied  in  comprehending, 
but  who,  like  Shakspeare,  applies  himself  to  living  things, 
penetrates  their  internal  structure,  puts  himself  in  com- 
munication with  their  actual  laws,  imprints  in  himself 
fervently  and  scrupulously  the  smallest  details  of  their 
outward  appearance ;  who  at  the  same  time  extends  his 
penetrating  surmises  beyond  the  region  of  observation, 
discerns  behind  visible  phenomena  some  world  obscure 
yet  sublime,  and  trembles  with  a  kind  of  veneration 
before  the  vast,  indistinct,  but  peopled  darkness  on 
whose  surface  our  little  universe  hangs  quivering. 
Such  a  one  is  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  a  naturalist,  a  philo- 
sopher, a  scholar,  a  physician,  and  a  moralist,  almost 
the  last  of  the  generation  which  produced  Jeremy  Taylor 
and  Shakspeare.  No  thinker  bears  stronger  witness  to 
the  wandering  and  inventive  curiosity  of  the  age.  No 
writer  has  better  displayed  the  brilliant  and  sombre 
imagination  of  the  North.  No  one  has  spoken  with  a 
more  eloquent  emotion  of  death,  the  vast  night  of 
forgetfulness,  of  the  all-devouring  pit,  of  human  vanity, 
which  tries  to  create  an  ephemeral  immortality  out  of 
glory  or  sculptured  stones.  No  one  has  revealed,  in 


344  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  u. 

more  glowing  and  original  expressions,  the  poetic  sap 
which  flows  through  all  the  minds  of  the  age. 

"  But  the  iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly  scattereth  her  poppy, 
and  deals  with  the  memory  of  men  without  distinction  to  merit 
of  perpetuity.  Who  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the  pyramids  1 
Herostratus  lives  that  burnt  the  temple  of  Diana,  he  is  almost 
lost  that  built  it.  Time  hath  spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's 
horse,  confounded  that  of  himself.  In  vain  we  compute  our 
felicities  by  the  advantage  of  our  good  names,  since  bad  have 
equal  duration ;  and  Thersites  is  like  to  live  as  long  as  Agamem- 
non. Who  knows  whether  the  best  of  men  be  known,  or  whether 
there  be  not  more  remarkable  persons  forgot  than  any  that  stand 
remembered  in  the  known  account  of  time  ?  Without  the  favour 
of  the  everlasting  register,  the  first  man  had  been  as  unknown 
as  the  last,  and  Methuselah's  long  life  had  been  his  only 
chronicle. 

"  Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater  part  must  be  con- 
tent to  be  as  though  they  had  not  been,  to  be  found  in  the 
register  of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man.  Twenty-seven  names 
make  up  the  first  story  before  the  flood,  and  the  recorded  names 
ever  since  contain  not  one  living  century.  The  number  of  the 
dead  long  exceedeth  all  that  shall  live.  The  night  of  time  far 
surpasseth  the  day,  and  who  knows  when  was  the  equinox? 
Every  hour  adds  unto  the  current  arithmetick  which  scarce 
stands  one  moment.  And  since  death  must  be  the  Lucina  of 
life,  and  even  Pagans  could  doubt,  whether  thus  to  live  were  to 
die ;  since  our  longest  sun  sets  at  right  declensions,  and  makes 
but  winter  arches,  and  therefore  it  cannot  be  long  before  we  lie 
down  in  darkness,  and  have  our  light  in  ashes ;  since  the  brother 
of  death  daily  haunts  us  with  dying  mementos,  and  time,  that 
grows  old  in  itself,  bids  us  hope  no  long  duration ; — diuturnity 
is  a  dream,  and  folly  of  expectation. 

"  Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of  time,  and  obliviou 
shares  with  memory  a  great  part  even  of  our  living  beings  ;  we 
slightly  remember  our  felicities,  and  the  smartest  strokes  of 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  345 

affliction  leave  but  short  smart  upon  us.  Sense  endureth  no 
extremities,  and  sorrows  destroy  us  or  themselves.  To  weep 
into  stones  are  fables.  Afflictions  induce  callosities ;  miseries 
are  slippery,  or  fall  like  snow  upon  us,  which  notwithstanding 
is  no  unhappy  stupidity.  To  be  ignorant  of  evils  to  come,  and 
forgetful  of  evils  past,  is  a  merciful  provision  of  nature,  whereby 
we  digest  the  mixture  of  our  few  and  evil  days  ;  and  our  delivered 
senses  not  relapsing  into  cutting  remembrances,  our  sorrows  are 
not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of  repetitions.  .  .  .  All  was  vanity, 
feeding  the  wind,  and  folly.  The  Egyptian  mummies,  which 
Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth.  Mummy 
is  become  merchandise,  Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is 
sold  for  balsams.  .  .  .  Man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid  in  ashes, 
and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solemnizing  nativities  and  deaths  with 
equal  lustre,  nor  omitting  ceremonies  of  bravery  in  the  infancy 
of  his  nature  .  .  .  Pyramids,  arches,  obelisks,  were  but  the 
irregularities  of  vain  glory,  and  wild  enormities  of  ancient 
magnanimity."1 

These  are  almost  the  words  of  a  poet,  and  it  is 
just  this  poet's  imagination  which  urges  him  onward 
into  science.2  Pace  to  face  with  the  productions  of 
nature  he  abounds  in  conjectures,  comparisons;  he 
gropes  about,  proposing  explanations,  making  trials, 
extending  his  guesses  like  so  many  flexible  and  vibrating 
feelers  into  the  four  corners  of  the  globe,  into  the  most 
distant  regions  of  fancy  and  truth.  As  he  looks  upon 
the  tree-like  and  foliaceous  crusts  which  are  formed 
upon  the  surface  of  freezing  liquids,  he  asks  himself  if 
this  be  not  a  regeneration  of  vegetable  essences,  dis- 
solved in  the  liquid.  At  the  sight  of  curdling  blood 

1  The   Works  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  ed.  Wilkin,  1852,  3  vols. 
Hydriotaphia,  iii.  ch.  v.  44,  et  passim. 

2  See  Milsand,  Etude  wr  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  Revue  de»  Ikwt 
Mvndes,  1858. 


346  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

or  milk,  he  inquires  whether  there  be  not  something 
analogous  to  the  formation  of  the  bird  in  the  egg,  or  to 
that  coagulation  of  chaos  which  gave  birth  to  our  world. 
In  presence  of  that  impalpable  force  which  makes 
liquids  freeze,  he  asks  if  apoplexy  and  cataract  are  not 
the  effects  of  a  like  power,  and  do  not  indicate  also 
the  presence  of  a  congealing  agency.  He  is  in  presence 
of  nature  as  an  artist,  a  man  of  letters  in  presence  of  a 
living  countenance,  marking  every  feature,  every  move- 
ment of  physiognomy,  so  as  to  be  able  to  divine  the 
passions  and  the  inner  disposition,  ceaselessly  correcting 
and  undoing  his  interpretations,  kept  in  agitation  by 
thought  of  the  invisible  forces  which  operate  beneath 
the  visible  envelope.  The  whole  of  the  middle-age 
and  of  antiquity,  with  their  theories  and  imaginations, 
Platonism,  Cabalism,  Christian  theology,  Aristotle's  sub- 
stantial forms,  the  specific  forms  of  the  alchemists, — 
all  human  speculations,  entangled  and  transformed  one 
within  the  other,  meet  simultaneously  in  his  brain,  so 
as  to  open  up  to  him  vistas  of  this  unknown  world. 
The  accumulation,  the  pile,  the  confusion,  the  ferment- 
ation and  the  inner  swarming,  mingled  with  vapours 
and  flashes,  the  tumultuous  overloading  of  his  imagina- 
tion and  his  mind,  oppress  and  agitate  him.  In  this 
expectation  and  emotion  his  curiosity  takes  hold  of 
everything ;  in  reference  to  the  least  fact,  the  most 
special,  the  most  obsolete,  the  most  chimerical,  he 
conceives  a  chain  of  complicated  investigations,  calculat- 
ing how  the  ark  could  contain  all  creatures,  with  their 
provision  of  food ;  how  Perpenna,  at  a  banquet,  arranged 
the  guests  so  as  to  strike  Sertorius ;  what  trees  must 
have  grown  on  the  banks  of  Acheron,  supposing  that 
there  were  any ;  whether  quincunx  plantations  had  not 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  347 

their  origin  in  Eden,  and  whether  the  numbers  and 
geometrical  figures  contained  in  the  lozenge-form  are 
not  met  with  in  all  the  productions  of  nature  and  art. 
You  may  recognise  here  the  exuberance  and  the  strange 
caprices  of  an  inner  development  too  ample  and  too 
strong.  Archaeology,  chemistry,  liistory,  nature,  there 
is  nothing  in  which  he  is  not  passionately  interested, 
which  does  not  cause  his  memory  and  his  inventive 
powers  to  overflow,  which  does  not  summon  up  within 
him  the  idea  of  some  force,  certainly  admirable,  possibly 
infinite.  But  what  completes  his  picture,  what  signal- 
ises the  advance  of  science,  is  the  fact  that  his  imagina- 
tion provides  a  counterbalance  against  itself.  He  is  as 
fertile  in  doubts  as  he  is  in  explanations.  If  he  sees 
a  thousand  reasons  which  tend  to  one  view,  he  sees 
also  a  thousand  which  tend  to  the  contrary.  At  the 
two  extremities  of  the  same  fact,  he  raises  up  to  the 
clouds,  but  in  equal  piles,  the  scaffolding  of  contradic- 
tory arguments.  Having  made  a  guess,  he  knows  that 
it  is  but  a  guess ;  he  pauses,  ends  with  a  perhaps, 
recommends  verification.  His  writings  consist  only  of 
opinions,  given  as  such ;  even  his  principal  work  is  a 
refutation  of  popular  errors.  In  the  main,  he  proposes 
questions,  suggests  explanations,  suspends  his  judg- 
ments, nothing  more ;  but  this  is  enough :  when  the 
search  is  so  eager,  when  the  paths  in  which  it  proceeds 
are  so  numerous,  when  it  is  so  scrupulous  in  securing 
its  hold,  the  issue  of  the  pursuit  is  sure ;  we  are  but  a 
few  steps  from  the  truth. 

V. 

In  this  band  of  scholars,  dreamers,  and  inquirers,  ap- 
pears the  most  comprehensive,  sensible,  originative  of  the 


348  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

minds  of  the  age,  Francis  Bacon,  a  great  and  luminous 
intellect,  one  of  the  finest  of  this  poetic  progeny,  who, 
like  his  predecessors,  was  naturally  disposed  to  clothe 
his  ideas  in  the  most  splendid  dress :  in  this  age,  a 
thought  did  not  seem  complete  until  it  had  assumed 
form  and  colour.  But  what  distinguishes  him  from  the 
others  is,  that  with  him  an  image  only  serves  to  concen- 
trate meditation.  He  reflected  long,  stamped  on  his  mind 
all  the  parts  and  relations  of  his  subject;  he  is  master 
of  it,  and  then,  instead  of  exposing  this  complete  idea  in 
a  graduated  chain  of  reasoning,  he  embodies  it  in  a 
comparison  so  expressive,  exact,  lucid,  that  behind  the 
figure  we  perceive  all  the  details  of  the  idea,  like  liquor 
in  a  fine  crystal  vase.  Judge  of  his  style  by  a  single 
example : 

"For  as  water,  whether  it  be  the  dew  of  Heaven  or  the 
springs  of  the  earth,  easily  scatters  and  loses  itself  in  the  ground, 
except  it  be  collected  into  some  receptacle,  where  it  may  by  union 
and  consort  comfort  and  sustain  itself  (and  for  that  cause,  the 
industry  of  man  has  devised  aqueducts,  cisterns,  and  pools,  and 
likewise  beautified  them  with  various  ornaments  of  magnificence 
and  state,  as  well  as  for  use  and  necessity) ;  so  this  excellent 
liquor  of  knowledge,  whether  it  descend  from  divine  inspiration 
or  spring  from  human  sense,  would  soon  perish  and  vanish  into 
oblivion,  if  it  were  not  preserved  in  books,  traditions,  conferences, 
and  especially  in  places  appointed  for  such  matters  as  universities, 
colleges,  and  schools,  where  it  may  have  both  a  fixed  habitation, 
and  means  and  opportunity  of  increasing  and  collecting  itself/'1 

"  The  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest,  is  the  mistaking  or  mis- 
placing of  the  last  or  farthest  end  of  knowledge :  for  men  have 
entered  into  a  desire  of  learning  and  knowledge,  sometimes  upon 
a  natural  curiosity  and  inquisitive  appetite ;  sometimes  to 

1  Bacon's  IVorks.  Translation  of  the  De  Augmentis  Scieitfiarum, 
Book  ii. ;  To  the  King. 


CHAP.  i.          THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  349 

entertain  their  minds  with  variety  and  delight ;  sometimes  for 
ornament  and  reputation ;  and  sometimes  to  enable  them  to 
victory  of  wit  and  contradiction ;  and  most  times  for  lucre  and 
profession  ;  and  seldom  sincerely  to  give  a  true  account  of  their 
gift  of  reason,  to  the  benefit  and  use  of  men  :  as  if  there  were 
sought  in  knowledge  a  couch  whereupon  to  rest  a  searching  and 
restless  spirit ;  or  a  terrace,  for  a  wandering  and  variable  mind 
to  walk  up  and  down  with  a  fair  prospect ;  or  a  tower  of  state, 
for  a  proud  mind  to  raise  itself  upon  ;  or  a  fort  or  commanding 
ground,  for  strife  and  contention  ;  or  a  shop,  for  profit  or  sale  ; 
and  not  a  rich  storehouse,  for  the  glory  of  the  Creator,  and  the 
relief  of  man's  estate." l 

This  is  his  mode  of  thought,  by  symbols,  not  by 
analysis ;  instead  of  explaining  his  idea,  he  transposes 
and  translates  it, — translates  it  entire,  to  the  smallest 
details,  enclosing  all  in  the  majesty  of  a  grand  period,  or 
in  the  brevity  of  a  striking  sentence.  Thence  springs 
a  style  of  admirable  richness,  gravity,  and  vigour,  now 
solemn  and  symmetrical,  now  concise  and  piercing, 
always  elaborate  and  full  of  colour.2  There  is  nothing 
in  English  prose  superior  to  his  diction. 

Thence  is  derived  also  his  manner  of  conceiving  things. 
He  is  not  a  dialectician,  like  Hobbes  or  Descartes,  apt 
in  arranging  ideas,  in  educing  one  from  another,  in 
leading  his  reader  from  the  simple  to  the  complex  by 
an  unbroken  chain.  He  is  a  producer  of  conceptions 
and  of  sentences.  The  matter  being  explored,  he  says 
to  us  :  "  Such  it  is ;  touch  it  not  on  that  side ;  it  must 
be  approached  from  the  other."  Nothing  more ;  no  proof, 
no  effort  to  convince  :  he  affirms,  and  does  nothing  more ; 

1  Bacon's  Works.     Translation  of  the  De  Augmentis  Scientiarum, 
Book  i.     The  true  end  of  learning  mistaken, 
3  Especially  in  the  Essays. 


350  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

he  has  thought  in  the  manner  of  artists  and  poets,  and 
he  speaks  after  the  manner  of  prophets  and  seers. 
Cogitata  et  visa  this  title  of  one  of  his  books  might  lie 
the  title  of  all.  The  most  admirable,  the  Namm  Organum, 
is  a  string  of  aphorisms, — a  collection,  as  it  were,  of 
scientific  decrees,  as  of  an  oracle  who  foresees  the  future 
and  reveals  the  truth.  And  to  make  the  resemblance 
complete,  he  expresses  them  by  poetical  figures,  by 
enigmatic  abbreviations,  almost  in  Sibylline  verses : 
Idola  specus,  Idola  tribus,  Idola  fori,  Idola  iheatri,  every 
one  will  recall  these  strange  names,  by  which  he  signifies 
the  four  kinds  of  illusions  to  which  man  is  subject.1 
Shakspeare  and  the  seers  do  not  contain  more  vigorous 
or  expressive  condensations  of  thought,  more  resembling 
inspiration,  and  in  Bacon  they  are  to  be  found  every- 
where. On  the  whole,  his  process  is  that  of  the  creators ; 
it  is  intuition,  not  reasoning.  When  he  has  laid  up 
his  store  of  facts,  the  greatest  possible,  -on  some  vast 
subject,  on  some  entire  province  of  the  mind,  on  the 
whole  anterior  philosophy,  on  the  general  condition  of 
the  sciences,  on  the  power  and  limits  of  human  reason, 
he  casts  over  all  this,  a  comprehensive  view,  as  it  were 
a  great  net,  brings  up  a  universal  idea,  condenses  his 
idea  into  a  maxim,  and  hands  it  to  us  with  the  words, 
"  Verify  and  profit  by  it." 

There  is  nothing  more  hazardous,  more  like  fantasy, 
than  this  mode  of  thought,  when  it  is  not  checked  by 
natural  and  strong  good  sense.  This  common  sense, 
which  is  a  kind  of  natural  divination,  the  stable  equi- 
librium of  an  intellect  always  gravitating  to  the  true, 

1  See  also  Novum  Organum,  Books  i.  and  ii.  ;  the  twenty-seven 
kinds  of  examples,  with  their  metaphorical  names  :  Instantice  crude, 
dtvcrtii  jarnue,  Instantice  innuentes,  polychrestce,  magicce,  etc. 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  351 

like  the  needle  to  the  pole,  Bacon  possesses  in  the  highest 
degree.  He  has  a  pre-eminently  practical,  even  an 
utilitarian  mind,  such  as  we  meet  with  later  in  Bentham, 
and  such  as  their  business  habits  were  to  impress  more 
and  more  upon  the  English.  At  the  age  of  sixteen, 
while  at  the  university,  he  was  dissatisfied  with  Aris- 
totle's philosophy,1  not  that  he  thought  meanly  of  the 
author,  whom,  on  the  contrary,  he  calls  a  great  genius ; 
but  because  it  seemed  to  him  of  no  practical  utility, 
incapable  of  producing  works  which  might  promote  the 
well-being  of  men.  We  see  that  from  the  outset  he 
struck  upon  his  dominant  idea :  all  else  comes  to  him 
from  this ;  a  contempt  for  antecedent  philosophy,  the 
conception  of  a  different  system,  the  entire  reformation 
of  the  sciences  by  the  indication  of  a  new  goal,  the  de- 
finition of  a  distinct  method,  the  opening  up  of  unsus- 
pected anticipations.2  It  is  never  speculation  which 
he  relishes,  b,ut  the  practical  application  of  it.  His 
eyes  are  turned  not  to  heaven,  but  to  earth,  not  to 
things  abstract  and  vain,  but  to  things  palpable  and 
solid,  not  to  curious  but  to  profitable  truths.  He  seeks 
to  better  the  condition  of  men,  to  labour  for  the  welfare 
of  mankind,  to  enrich  human  life  with  new  discoveries 
and  new  resources,  to  equip  mankind  with  new  powers 
and  new  instruments  of  action.  His  philosophy  itself 
is  but  an  instrument,  organum,  a  sort  of  machine  or 
lever  constructed  to  enable  the  intellect  to  raise  a  weight, 
to  break  through  obstacles,  to  open  up  vistas,  to  accom- 
plish tasks  which  had  hitherto  surpassed  its  power. 

1  The  Works  of  Francis  Bacon,  London  1824,  vol.  vii.  p.  2.  Latin 
Biography  by  Rawley. 

*  This  point  is  brought  out  by  the  review  of  Lord  Macaulay. 
Critical  and  Historical  Essays,  vol.  iii. 


352  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

In  his  eyes,  every  special  science,  like  science  in  general, 
should  be  an  implement.  He  invites  mathematicians, 
to  quit  their  pure  geometry,  to  study  numbers  only  with 
a  view  to  natural  philosophy,  to  seek  formulas  only  to 
calculate  real  quantities  and  natural  motions.  He 
recommends  moralists  to  study  the  soul,  the  passions, 
habits,  temptations,  not  merely  in  a  speculative  way,  but 
with  a  view  to  the  cure  or  diminution  of  vice,  and  as- 
signs to  the  science  of  morals  as  its  goal  the  amelioration 
of  morals.  For  him,  the  object  of  science  is  always  the 
establishment  of  an  art,  that  is,  the  production  of  some- 
thing of  practical  utility ;  when  he  wished  to  describe 
the  efficacious  nature  of  his  philosophy  by  a  tale,  he 
delineated  in  the  New  Atlantis,  with  a  poet's  boldness 
and  the  precision  of  a  seer,  almost  employing  the  very 
terms  in  use  now,  modern  applications,  and  the  present 
organisation  of  the  sciences,  academies,  observatories,  air- 
balloons,  submarine  vessels,  the  improvement  of  laud, 
the  transmutation  of  species,  regenerations,  the  discovery 
of  remedies,  the  preservation  of  food.  The  end  of  our 
foundation,  says  his  principal  personage,  is  the  know- 
ledge of  causes  and  secret  motions  of  things,  and  the 
enlarging  of  the  bounds  of  human  empire,  to  the  effect- 
ing of  all  things  possible.  And  this  "  possible  "  is  infi- 
nite. 

How  did  this  grand  and  just  conception  originate  ? 
Doubtless  common  sense  and  genius  too  were  necessary 
to  its  production  ;  but  neither  common  sense  nor  genius 
was  lacking  to  men :  there  had  been  more  than  one 
who,  observing,  like  Bacon,  the  progress  of  particular 
industries,  could,  like  him,  have  conceived  of  universal 
industry,  and  from  certain  limited  ameliorations  have 
advanced  to  unlimited  amelioration.  Here  we  see  the 


V-I.  P-352. 


SIR    THOMAS    BROWNE 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  353 

power  of  connection  ;  men  think  they  do  everything  by 
their  individual  thought,  and  they  can  do  nothing  with- 
out the  assistance  of  the  thoughts  of  their  neighbours  ; 
they  fancy  that  they  are  following  the  small  voice  with- 
in them,  but  they  only  hear  it  because  it  is  swelled  by 
the  thousand  buzzing  and  imperious  voices,  which, 
issuing  from  all  surrounding  or  distant  circumstances, 
are  confounded  with  it  in  an  harmonious  vibration. 
Generally  they  hear  it,  as  Bacon  did,  from  the  first 
moment  of  reflection ;  but  it  had  become  inaudible 
among  the  opposing  sounds  which  came  from  without 
to  smother  it.  Could  this  confidence  in  the  infinite 
enlargement  of  human  power,  this  glorious  idea  of  the 
universal  conquest  of  nature,  this  firm  hope  in  the  con- 
tinual increase  of  well-being  and  happiness,  have  germi- 
nated, grown,  occupied  an  intelligence  entirely,  and 
thence  have  struck  its  roots,  been  propagated  and  spread 
over  neighbouring  intelligences,  in  a  time  of  discourage- 
ment and  decay,  when  men  believed  the  end  of  the 
world  at  hand,  when  things  were  falling  into  ruin  about 
them,  when  Christian  mysticism,  as  in  the  first  centuries, 
ecclesiastical  tyranny,  as  in  the  fourteenth  century,  were 
convincing  them  of  their  impotence,  by  perverting  their 
intellectual  efforts  and  curtailing  their  liberty.  On  the 
contrary,  such  hopes  must  then  have  seemed  to  be  out- 
bursts of  pride,  or  suggestions  of  the  carnal  mind.  They 
did  seem  so ;  and  the  last  representatives  of  ancient 
science,  and  the  first  of  the  new,  were  exiled  or  impris- 
oned, assassinated  or  burned.  In  order  to  be  developed 
an  idea  must  be  in  harmony  witli  surrounding  civili- 
sation ;  before  man  can  expect  to  attain  the  dominion 
over  nature,  or  attempts  to  improve  his  condition, 
amelioration  must  have  begun  on  all  sides,  industries 
VOL.  i.  2  A 


354  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

have  increased,  knowledge  have  been  accumulated,  the 
arts  expanded,  a  hundred  thousand  irrefutable  witnesses 
must  have  come  incessantly  to  give  proof  of  his  power  and 
assurance  of  Ms  progress.  The  "  masculine  birth  of  the 
time  "  (temporis  partus  masculus)  is  the  title  which  Bacon 
applies  to  his  work,  and  it  is  a  true  one.  In  fact,  the 
whole  age  co-operated  in  it;  by  this  creation  it  was 
finished.  The  consciousness  of  human  power  and  pro- 
sperity gave  to  the  Eenaissance  its  first  energy,  its  ideal, 
its  poetic  materials,  its  distinguishing  features  ;  and  now 
it  furnishes  it  with  its  final  expression,  its  scientific 
doctrine,  and  its  ultimate  object. 

We  may  add  also,  its  method.  For,  the  end  of  a 
journey  once  determined,  the  route  is  laid  down,  since  the 
end  always  determines  the  route  ;  when  the  point  to  be 
reached  is  changed,  the  path  of  approach  is  changed, 
and  science,  varying  its  object,  varies  also  its  method. 
So  long  as  it  limited  its  effort  to  the  satisfying  an  idle 
curiosity,  opening  out  speculative  vistas,  establishing  a 
sort  of  opera  in  speculative  minds,  it  could  launch  out 
any  moment  into  metaphysical  abstractions  and  dis- 
tinctions :  it  was  enough  for  it  to  skim  over  experience  ; 
it  soon  quitted  it,  and  came  all  at  once  upon  great  words, 
quiddities,  the  principle  of  individuation,  final  causes. 
Half  proofs  sufficed  science ;  at  bottom  it  did  not  care 
to  establish  a  truth,  but  to  get  an  opinion;  and  its 
instrument,  the  syllogism,  was  serviceable  only  for 
refutations,  not  for  discoveries  :  it  took  general  laws  for 
a  starting-point  instead  of  a  point  of  arrival ;  instead 
of  going  to  find  them,  it  fancied  them  found.  The 
syllogism  was  good  in  the  schools,  not  in  nature;  it 
made  disputants,  not  discoverers.  From  the  moment 
that  science  had  art  for  an  end,  and  men  studied  in 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  355 

order  to  act,  all  was  transformed;  for  we  cannot  act, 
without  certain  and  precise  knowledge.  Forces,  before 
they  can  be  employed,  must  be  measured  and  verified ; 
before  we  can  build  a  house,  we  must  know  exactly  the 
resistance  of  the  beams,  or  the  house  will  collapse ; 
before  we  can  cure  a  sick  man,  we  must  know  with 
certainty  the  effect  of  a  remedy,  or  the  patient  will  die. 
Practice  makes  certainty  and '  exactitude  a  necessity  to 
science,  because  practice  is  impossible  when  it  has 
nothing  to  lean  upon  but  guesses  and  approximations. 
How  can  we  eliminate  guesses  and  approximations? 
How  introduce  into  science  solidity  and  precision  ? 
We  must  imitate  the  cases  in  which  science,  issuing  in 
practice,  has  proved  to  be  precise  and  certain,  and  these 
cases  are  the  industries.  We  must,  as  in  the  industries, 
observe,  essay,  grope  about,  verify,  keep  our  mind  fixed 
on  sensible  and  particular  things,  advance  to  general 
rules  only  step  by  step ;  not  anticipate  experience,  but 
follow  it;  not  imagine  nature,  but  interpret  it.  For 
every  general  effect,  such  as  heat,  whiteness,  hardness, 
liquidity,  we  must  seek  a  general  condition,  so  that  in 
producing  the  condition  we  may  produce  the  effect 
And  for  this  it  is  necessary,  by  fit  rejections  and  ex- 
clusions, to  extract  the  condition  sought  from  the  heap 
of  facts  in  which  it  lies  buried,  construct  the  table  of 
cases  from  which  the  effect  is  absent,  the  table  where  it 
is  present,  the  table  where  the  effect  is  shown  in  various 
degrees,  so  as  to  isolate  and  bring  to  light  the  condition 
which  produced  it.1  Then  we  shall  have,  not  useless 
universal  axioms,  but  efficacious  mediate  axioms,  true 
laws  from  which  we  can  derive  works,  and  which  are 
the  sources  of  power  in  the  same  degree  as  the  sources 

1  Novum  Organum,  ii.  15  and  16. 


356  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

of  light.1  Bacon  described  and  predicted  in  this  modern 
science  and  industry,  their  correspondence,  method, 
resources,  principle ;  and  after  more  than  two  centuries, 
it  is  still  to  him  that  we  go  even  at  the  present  day  to 
look  for  the  theory  of  what  we  are  attempting  and 
doing. 

Beyond  this  great  view,  he  has  discovered  nothing. 
Cowley,  one  of  his  admirers,  rightly  said  that,  like 
Moses  on  Mount  Pisgah,  he  was  the  first  to  announce 
the  promised  land ;  but  he  might  have  added  quite  as 
justly,  that,  like  Moses,  he  did  not  enter  there.  He 
pointed  out  the  route,  but  did  not  travel  it ;  he  taught 
men  how  to  discover  natural  laws,  but  discovered  none. 
His  definition  of  heat  is  extremely  imperfect.  His 
Natural  History  is  full  of  fanciful  explanations.2  Like 
the  poets,  he  peoples  nature  with  instincts  and  desires ; 
attributes  to  bodies  an  actual  voracity,  to  the  atmosphere 
a  thirst  for  light,  sounds,  odours,  vapours,  which  it 
drinks  in ;  to  metals  a  sort  of  haste  to  be  incorporated 
with  acids.  He  explains  the  duration  of  the  bubbles 
of  air  which  float  on  the  surface  of  liquids,  by  supposing 
that  air  has  a  very  small  or  no  appetite  for  height. 
He  sees  in  every  quality,  weight,  ductility,  hardness,  a 
distinct  essence  which  has  its  special  cause ;  so  that 
when  a  man  knows  the  cause  of  every  quality  of  gold,  he 
will  be  able  to  put  all  these  causes  together,  and  make 
yold.  In  the  main,  with  the  alchemists,  Paracelsus  and 
Gilbert,  Kepler  himself,  with  all  the  men  of  his  time, 
men  of  imagination,  nourished  on  Aristotle,  he  repre- 
sents nature  as  a  compound  of  secret  and  living  energies, 
inexplicable  and  primordial  forces,  distinct  and  indecom- 

1  Novum  Organum,  i.  i.  3. 
*  Natural  History,  800,  24,  etc.     De  Augmentis,  iiL  L 


CHAP.  i.  THE  PAGAN  RENAISSANCE.  357 

posable  essences,  adapted  each  by  the  will  of  the  Creator 
to  produce  a  distinct  effect.  He  almost  saw  souls 
endowed  with  latent  repugnances  and  occult  inclina 
tions,  which  aspire  to  or  resist  certain  directions,  certain 
mixtures,  and  certain  localities.  On  this  account  also 
he  confounds  everything  in  his  researches  in  an  undis- 
tinguishable  mass,  vegetative  and  medicinal  properties, 
mechanical  and  curative,  physical  and  moral,  without 
considering  the  most  complex  as  depending  on  the 
simplest,  but  each  on  the  contrary  in  itself,  and  taken 
apart,  as  an  irreducible  and  independent  existence. 
Obstinate  in  this  error,  the  thinkers  of  the  age  mark 
time  without  advancing.  They  see  clearly  with  Bacon 
the  wide  field  of  discovery,  but  they  cannot  enter  upon 
it.  They  want  an  idea,  and  for  want  of  this  idea  they 
do  not  advance.  The  disposition  of  mind  which  but 
now  was  a  lever,  is  become  an  obstacle :  it  must  be 
changed,  that  the  obstacle  may  be  got  rid  of.  For  ideas, 
I  mean  great  and  efficacious  ones,  do  not  come  at  will 
nor  by  chance,  by  the  effort  of  an  individual,  or  by  a 
happy  accident.  Methods  and  philosophies,  as  well  as 
literatures  and  religions,  arise  from  the  spirit  of  the  age ; 
and  this  spirit  of  the  age  makes  them  potent  or  power- 
less. One  state  of  public  intelligence  excludes  a  certain 
kind  of  literature ;  another,  a  certain  scientific  concep- 
tion. When  it  happens  thus,  writers  and  thinkers 
labour  in  vain,  the  literature  is  abortive,  the  conception 
does  not  make  its  appearance.  In  vain  they  turn  one 
way  and  another,  trying  to  remove  the  weight  which 
hinders  them;  something  stronger  than  themselves 
paralyses  their  hands  and  frustrates  their  endeavours. 
The  central  pivot  of  the  vast  wheel  on  which  human 
affairs  move  must  be  displaced  one  notch,  that  all  may 


358  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BUCK  11. 

move  with  its  motion.  At  this  moment  the  pivot  was 
moved,  and  thus  a  revolution  of  the  great  wheel  begins, 
bringing  round  a  new  conception  of  nature,  and  in 
consequence  that  part  of  the  method  which  was  lacking. 
To  the  diviners,  the  creators,  the  comprehensive  and 
impassioned  minds  who  seized  objects  in  a  lump  and  in 
masses,  succeeded  the  discursive  thinkers,  the  systematic 
thinkers,  the  graduated  and  clear  logicians,  who,  dis- 
posing ideas  in  continuous  series,  lead  the  hearer  grad- 
ually from  the  simple  to  the  most  complex  by  easy  and 
unbroken  paths.  Descartes  superseded  Bacon ;  the 
classical  age  obliterated  the  Renaissance ;  poetry  and 
lofty  imagination  gave  way  before  rhetoric,  eloquence, 
and  analysis.  In  this  transformation  of  mind,  ideas 
were  transformed.  Everything  was  drained  dry  and 
simplified.  The  universe,  like  all  else,  was  reduced  to 
two  or  three  notions;  and  the  conception  of  nature, 
which  was  poetical,  became  mechanical.  Instead  of 
souls,  living  forces,  repugnances,  and  attractions,  we  have 
pulleys,  levers,  impelling  forces.  The  world,  which 
seemed  a  mass  of  instinctive  powers,  is  now  like  a 
mere  machinery  of  cog-wheels.  Beneath  this  adventur- 
ous supposition  lies  a  large  and  certain  truth :  that 
there  is,  namely,  a  scale  of  facts,  some  at  the  summit 
very  complex,  others  at  the  base  very  simple;  those 
above  having  their  origin  in  those  below,  so  that  the 
lower  ones  explain  the  higher ;  and  that  we  must  seek 
the  primary  laws  of  things  in  the  laws  of  motion.  The 
search  was  made,  and  Galileo  found  them.  Thenceforth 
the  work  of  the  Renaissance,  outstripping  the  extreme 
point  to  which  Bacon  had  pushed  it,  and  at  which  he 
had  left  it,  was  able  to  proceed  onward  by  itself,  and 
did  so  proceed,  without  limit 


CHAP.  n.  THE  THKATKE.  369 


CHAPTER  II 

Wyz  Cfifatre. 

WE  must  look  at  this  world  more  closely,  and  beneath 
the  ideas  which  are  developed  seek  for  the  living  men ; 
it  is  the  theatre  especially  which  is  the  original  product 
of  the  English  Renaissance,  and  it  is  the  theatre 
especially  which  will  exhibit  the  men  of  the  English  Re- 
naissance. Forty  poets,  amongst  them  ten  of  superior 
rank,  as  well  as  one,  the  greatest  of  all  artists  who 
have  represented  the  soul  in  words ;  many  hundreds  of 
pieces,  and  nearly  fifty  masterpieces;  the  drama  ex- 
tended over  all  the  provinces  of  history,  imagination, 
and  fancy, — expanded  so  as  to  embrace  comedy,  tragedy, 
pastoral  and  fanciful  literature — to  represent  all  degrees 
of  human  condition,  and  all  the  caprices  of  human 
invention  —  to  express  all  the  perceptible  details  of 
actual  truth,  and  all  the  philosophic  grandeur  of  general 
reflection ;  the  stage  disencumbered  of  all  precept  and 
freed  from  all  imitation,  given  up  and  appropriated 
in  the  minutest  particulars  to  the  reigning  taste  and 
public  intelligence :  all  this  was  a  vast  and  manifold 
work,  capable  by  its  flexibility,  its  greatness,  and  its 
form,  of  receiving  and  preserving  the  exact  imprint  of 
the  age  and  of  the  nation.1 

1  "The  very  age  and  body  of  the  time,  his  form  and  pressure." — 
Shakspeare. 


360  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  it 

I. 

Let  us  try,  then,  to  set  before  our  eyes  this  public,  this 
audience,  and  this  stage — all  connected  with  one  another, 
as  in  every  natural  and  living  work ;  and  if  ever  there 
was  a  living  and  natural  work,  it  is  here.  There  were 
already  seven  theatres  in  London,  in  Shakspeare's  time, 
so  brisk  and  universal  was  the  taste  for  dramatic 
representations.  Great  and  rude  contrivances,  awkward 
in  their  construction,  barbarous  in  their  appointments ; 
but  a  fervid  imagination  readily  supplied  all  that  they 
lacked,  and  hardy  bodies  endured  all  inconveniences 
without  difficulty.  On  a  dirty  site,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Thames,  rose  the  principal  theatre,  the  Globe,  a 
sort  of  hexagonal  tower,  surrounded  by  a  muddy  ditch, 
on  which  was  hoisted  a  red  flag.  The  common  people 
could  enter  as  well  as  the  rich :  there  were  sixpenny, 
twopenny,  even  penny  seats ;  but  they  could  not  see  it 
without  money.  If  it  rained,  and  it  often  rains  in 
London,  the  people  in  the  pit,  butchers,  mercers,  bakers, 
sailors,  apprentices,  receive  the  streaming  rain  upon 
their  heads.  I  suppose  they  did  not  trouble  themselves 
about  it ;  it  was  not  so  long  since  they  began  to  pave 
the  streets  of  London ;  and  when  men,  like  these, 
have  had  experience  of  sewers  and  puddles,  they  are 
not  afraid  of  catching  cold.  While  waiting  for  the 
piece,  they  amuse  themselves  after  their  fashion,  drink 
beer,  crack  nuts,  eat  fruit,  howl,  and  now  and  then  re- 
sort to  their  fists ;  they  have  been  known  to  fall  upon 
the  actors,  and  turn  the  theatre  upside  down.  At 
other  times  they  were  dissatisfied  and  went  to  the  tavern 
to  give  the  poet  a  hiding,  or  toss  him  in  a  blanket; 
they  were  coarse  fellows,  and  there  was  no  month 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  361 

when  the  cry  of  "  Clubs  "  did  not  call  them  out  of  their 
shops  to  exercise  their  brawny  arms.  When  the  beer 
took  effect,  there  was  a  great  upturned  barrel  in  the 
pit,  a  peculiar  receptacle  for  general  use.  The  smell 
rises,  and  then  comes  the  cry,  "  Burn  the  juniper ! " 
They  burn  some  in  a  plate  on  the  stage,  and  the  heavy 
smoke  fills  the  air.  Certainly  the  folk  there  assembled 
could  scarcely  get  disgusted  at  anything,  and  cannot 
have  had  sensitive  noses.  In  the  time  of  Rabelais 
there  was  not  much  cleanliness  to  speak  of.  Remember 
that  they  were  hardly  out  of  the  middle-age,  and  that 
in  the  middle-age  man  lived  on  a  dunghill. 

Above  them,  on  the  stage,  were  the  spectators  able 
to  pay  a  shilling,  the  elegant  people,  the  gentlefolk. 
These  were  sheltered  from  the  rain,  and  if  they  chose 
to  pay  an  extra  shilling,  could  have  a  stool.  To  this 
were  reduced  the  prerogatives  of  rank  and  the  devices 
of  comfort :  it  often  happened  that  there  were  not  stools 
enough ;  then  they  lie  down  on  the  ground :  this  was 
not  a  time  to  be  dainty.  They  play  cards,  smoke, 
insult  the  pit,  who  gave  it  them  back  without  stinting, 
and  throw  apples  at  them  into  the  bargain.  They  also 
gesticulate,  swear  in  Italian,  French,  English  ;a  crack 
aloud  jokes  in  dainty,  composite,  high-coloured,  words : 
in  short,  they  have  the  energetic,  original,  gay  manners 
of  artists,  the  same  humour,  the  same  absence  of  con- 
straint, and,  to  complete  the  resemblance,  the  same 
desire  to  make  themselves  singular,  the  same  imaginative 
cravings,  the  same  absurd  and  picturesque  devices, 
beards  cut  to  a  point,  into  the  shape  of  a  fan,  a  spade, 
the  letter  T,  gaudy  and  expensive  dresses,  copied  from 
five  or  six  neighbouring  nations,  embroidered,  laced 
1  Ben  Jonsou,  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  ;  CyntJiia's  Reads. 


362  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  H. 

with  gold,  motley,  continually  heightenea  in  effect,  or 
changed  for  others :  there  was,  as  it  were,  a  carnival  in 
their  brains  as  well  as  on  their  backs. 

With  such  spectators  illusions  could  be  produced 
without  much  trouble :  there  were  no  preparations  or 
perspectives ;  few  or  no  moveable  scenes :  their  imagi- 
nations took  all  this  upon  them.  A  scroll  in  big  letters 
announced  to  the  public  that  they  were  in  London  or 
Constantinople,  and  that  was  enough  to  carry  the 
public  to  the  desired  place.  There  was  no  trouble 
about  probability.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  writes : 

"  You  shall  have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  Africke  of  the  other, 
and  so  many  other  under-kingdomes,  that  the  Plaier  when  hee 
comes  in,  must  ever  begin  with  telling  where  hee  is,  or  else  the 
tale  will  not  be  conceived.  Now  shall  you  have  three  Ladie* 
walke  to  gather  flowers,  and  then  wee  must  beleeve  the  stage  to 
be  a  garden.  By  and  by  wee  heare  newes  of  shipwracke  in  the 
same  place,  then  wee  are  to  blame  if  we  accept  it  not  for  a 
rocke ;  .  .  .  while  in  the  meane  time  two  armies  flie  in,  repre- 
sented with  foure  swordes  and  bucklers,  and  then  what  hard 
heart  will  not  receive  it  for  a  pitched  field  rf  Now  of  time  they 
are  much  more  liberall.  For  ordinary  it  is,  that  two  young 
Princes  fall  in  love,  after  many  traverses,  shee  is  got  with  childe, 
delivered  of  a  faire  boy,  hee  is  lost,  groweth  a  man,  falleth  in 
love,  and  is  readie  to  get  another  childe ;  and  all  this  in  two 
houres  space." l 

Doubtless  these  enormities  were  somewhat  reduced 
under  Shakspeare;  with  a  few  hangings,  crude  repre- 
sentations of  animals,  towers,  forests,  they  assisted 
somewhat  the  public  imagination.  But  after  all,  in 
Shakspeare's  plays  as  in  all  others,  the  imagination 
from  within  is  chiefly  drawn  upon  for  the  machinery; 
'  The  Dcfe-iux  o/Poetie,  ed.  1629,  p.  562, 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  363 

it  must  lend  itself  to  all,  substitute  all,  accept  for  a 
queen  a  young  man  who.  has  just  been  shaved,  endure 
in  one  act  ten  changes  of  place,  leap  suddenly  over 
twenty  years  or  five  hundred  miles,1  take  half-a 
dozen  supernumeraries  for  forty  thousand  men,  and  to 
have  represented  by  the  rolling  of  the  drums  all  the 
battles  of  Caesar,  Henry  V.,  Coriolanus,  Eichard  III. 
And  imagination,  being  so  overflowing  and  so  young, 
accepts  all  this  !  Recall  your  own  youth  ;  for  my  part, 
the  deepest  emotions  I  have  ever  felt  at  a  theatre  were 
given  to  me  by  a  strolling  bevy  of  four  young  girls, 
playing  comedy  and  tragedy  on  a  stage  in  a  coffeehouse ; 
true,  I  was  eleven  years  old.  So  in  this  theatre,  at  this 
moment,  their  souls  were  fresh,  as  ready  to  feel  every- 
thing as  the  poet  was  to  dare  everything. 

II. 

These  are  but  externals ;  let  us  try  to  advance 
further,  to  observe  the  passions,  the  bent  of  mind,  the 
inner  man :  it  is  this  inner  state  which  raised  and 
modelled  the  drama,  as  everything  else ;  invisible 
inclinations  are  everywhere  the  cause  of  visible  works, 
and  the  interior  shapes  the  exterior.  What  are  these 
townspeople,  courtiers,  this  public,  whose  taste  fashions 
the  theatre  ?  what  is  there  peculiar  in  the  structure  and 
condition  of  their  minds  ?  The  condition  must  needs 
be  peculiar ;  for  the  drama  flourishes  all  of  a  sudden, 
and  for  sixty  years  together,  with  marvellous  luxuriance, 
and  at  the  end  of  this  time  is  arrested  so  that  no  effort 
could  ever  revive  it.  The  structure  must  be  peculiar ; 
for  of  all  theatres,  old  and  new,  this  is  distinct  in  form, 
and  displays  a  style,  action,  characters,  an  idea  of  life, 
which  are  not  found  in  any  age  or  any  country  beside 
1  Winter's  Tale  ;  Cymbeline  ;  Julius  Ccesar. 


364  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  it 

This  particular  feature  is  the  free  and  complete  expan- 
sion of  nature. 

What  we  call  nature  in  men  is,  man  such  as  he  was 
before  culture  and  civilisation  had  deformed  and  re- 
formed him.  Almost  always,  when  a  new  generation 
arrives  at  manhood  and  consciousness,  it  finds  a  code 
of  precepts  impose  on  it  with  all  the  weight  and  autho- 
rity of  antiquity.  A  hundred  kinds  of  chains,  a 
hundred  thousand  kinds  of  ties,  religion,  morality,  good 
breeding,  every  legislation  which  regulates  sentiments, 
morals,  manners,  fetter  and  tame  the  creature  of  impulse 
and  passion  which  breathes  and  frets  within  each  of  us. 
There  is  nothing  like  that  here.  It  is  a  regeneration, 
and  the  curb  of  the  past  is  wanting  to  the  present 
Catholicism,  reduced  to  external  ceremony  and  clerical 
chicanery,  had  just  ended ;  Protestantism,  arrested  in 
its  first  gropings  after  truth,  or  straying  into  sects,  had 
not  yet  gained  the  mastery ;  the  religion  of  discipline 
was  grown  feeble,  and  the  religion  of  morals  was  not 
yet  established ;  men  ceased  to  listen  to  the  directions 
of  the  clergy,  and  had  not  yet  spelt  out  the  law  of 
conscience.  The  church  was  turned  into  an  assembly- 
room,  as  in  Italy ;  the  young  fellows  came  to  St.  Paul's 
to  walk,  laugh,  chatter,  display  their  new  cloaks ;  the 
thing  had  even  passed  into  a  custom.  They  paid  for 
the  noise  they  made  with  their  spurs,  and  this  tax  was 
a  source  of  income  to  the  canons ; l  pickpockets,  loose 

1  Strype,  in  his  Annals  of  the  Reformation  (1571),  says  :  "  Many 
now  were  wholly  departed  from  the  communion  of  the  church,  and 
came  no  more  to  hear  divine  service  in  their  parish  churches,  nor  re- 
ceived the  holy  sacrament,  according  to  the  laws  of  the  realm." 
Richard  Baxter,  in  his  Life,  published  in  1696,  says  :  "  We  lived  in  a 
country  that  had  but  little  preaching  at  all.  ...  In  the  village 
where  I  lived  the  Reader  read  the  Common  Prayer  briefly  ;  and  the 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  365 

girls,  came  there  by  crowds;  these  latter  struck  their 
bargains  while  service  was  going  on.  Imagine,  in  short, 
that  the  scruples  of  conscience  and  the  severity  of  the 
Puritans  were  at  that  time  odious  and  ridiculed  on  the 
stage,  and  judge  of  the  difference  between  this  sensual, 
unbridled  England,  and  the  correct,  disciplined,  stiff 
England  of  our  own  time.  Ecclesiastical  or  secular,  we 
find  no  signs  of  rule.  In  the  failure  of  faith,  reason 
had  not  gained  sway,  and  opinion  is  as  void  of  authority 
as  tradition.  The  imbecile  age,  which  has  just  ended, 
continues  buried  in  scorn,  with  its  ravings,  its  verse- 
makers,  and  its  pedantic  text-books;  and  out  of  the 
liberal  opinions  derived  from  antiquity,  from  Italy,  France, 
and  Spain,  every  one  could  pick  and  choose  as  it  pleased 
him,  without  stooping  to  restraint  or  acknowledging  a 
superiority.  There  was  no  model  imposed  on  them,  as 
nowadays ;  instead  of  affecting  imitation,  they  affected 
originality.1  Each  strove  to  be  himself,  with  his  own 
oaths,  peculiar  ways,  costumes,  his  specialties  of  conduct 
and  humour,  and  to  be  unlike  every  one  else.  They 
said  not,  "  So  and  so  is  done,"  but  "  I  do  so  and  so." 
Instead  of  restraining  they  gave  free  vent  to  themselves. 
There  was  no  etiquette  of  society ;  save  for  an  exagge- 
rated jargon  of  chivalresque  courtesy,  they  are  masters 
of  speech  and  action  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 
You  will  find  them  free  from  decorum,  as  of  all  else. 

rest  of  the  day,  even  till  dark  night  almost,  except  Eating  time,  was 
spent  in  Dancing  under  a  Maypole  and  a  great  tree,  not  far  from  my 
father's  door,  where  all  the  Town  did  meet  together.  And  though  one 
of  my  father's  own  Tenants  was  the  piper,  he  could  not  restrain  him 
nor  break  the  sport.  So  that  we  could  not  read  the  Scripture  in  our 
family  without  the  great  disturbance -of  the  Taber  and  Pipe  and  uoisu 
in  the  street. " 

1  Ben  Jonson,  Every  Man  in  his  Humour. 


366  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  11. 

In  this  outbreak  and  absence  of  fetters,  they  resemble 
fine  strong  horses  let  loose  in  the  meadow.  Their  in- 
born instincts  have  not  been  tamed,  nor  muzzled,  nor 
diminished. 

On  the  contrary,  they  have  been  preserved  intact  by 
bodily  and  military  training ;  and  escaping  as  they  were 
from  barbarism,  not  from  civilisation,  they  had  not  been 
acted  upon  by  the  innate  softening  and  hereditary 
tempering  which  are  now  transmitted  with  the  blood, 
and  civilise  a  man  from  the  moment  of  his  birth. 
This  is  why  man,  who  for  three  centuries  has  been  a 
domestic  animal,  was  still  almost  a  savage  beast,  and 
the  force  of  his  muscles  and  the  strength  of  his  nerves 
increased  the  boldness  and  energy  of  his  passions.  Look 
at  these  uncultivated  men,  men  of  the  people,  how 
suddenly  the  blood  warms  and  rises  to  their  face ;  their 
fists  double,  their  lips  press  together,  and  those  vigorous 
bodies  rush  at  once  into  action.  The  courtiers  of  that 
age  were  like  our  men  of  the  people.  They  had  the 
same  taste  for  the  exercise  of  their  limbs,  the  same 
indifference  toward  the  inclemencies  of  the  weather,  the 
same  coarseness  of  language,  the  same  undisguised 
sensuality.  They  were  carmen  in  body  and  gentlemen 
in  sentiment,  with  the  dress  of  actors  and  the  tastes  of 
artists.  "  At  fourtene,"  says  John  Hardyng,  "  a  lordes 
sonnes  shalle  to  felde  hunte  the  dere,  and  catch  an 
hardynesse.  For  dere  to  hunte  and  slea,  and  see  them 
blede,  ane  hardyment  gyffith  to  his  courage.  ...  At 
sextene  yere,  to  werray  and  to  wage,  to  juste  and  ryde, 
and  castels  to  assayle  .  .  .  and  every  day  his  armure 
to  assay  in  fete  of  armes  with  some  of  his  meyne."  ] 

>  The  Chronicle  of  John  Hardyng  (1436),  ed.  H.  Ellis,  1812. 
Preface. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  36? 

When  ripened  to  manhood,  he  is  employed  with  the 
bow,  in  wrestling,  leaping,  vaulting.  Henry  VIII.'  s 
court,  in  its  noisy  merriment,  was  like  a  village  fair. 
The  king,  says  Holiushed,  exercised  himself  "  dailie  in 
shooting,  singing,  dancing,  wrestling,  casting  of  the  barre, 
plaieing  at  the  recorders,  flute,  virginals,  in  setting  of 
songs,  and  making  of  ballads."  He  leaps  the  moats 
with  a  pole,  and  was  once  within  an  ace  of  being  killed. 
He  is  so  fond  of  wrestling,  that  publicly,  on  the  field  of 
the  Cloth  of  Gold,  he  seized  Francis  I.  in  his  arms  to  try 
a  throw  with  him.  This  is  how  a  common  soldier  or  a 
bricklayer  nowadays  tries  a  new  comrade.  In  fact,  they 
regarded  gross  jests  and  brutal  buffooneries  as  amuse- 
ments, as  soldiers  and  bricklayers  do  now.  In  every 
nobleman's  house  there  was  a  fool,  whose  business  it  was 
to  utter  pointed  jests,  to  make  eccentric  gestures,  horrible 
faces,  to  sing  licentious  songs,  as  we  might  hear  now  in 
a  beer-house.  They  thought  insults  and  obscenity  a 
joke.  They  were  foul-mouthed,  they  listened  to 
Rabelais'  words  undiluted,  and  delighted  in  conversation 
which  would  revolt  us.  They  had  no  respect  for  huma- 
nity; the  rules  of  proprieties  and  the  habits  of  good 
breeding  began  only  under  Louis  XIV.,  and  by  imita- 
tion of  the  French ;  at  this  time  they  all  blurted  out 
the  word  that  fitted  in,  and  that  was  most  frequently  a 
coarse  word.  You  will  see  on  the  stage,  in  Shakspeare's 
Pericles,  the  filth  of  a  haunt  of  vice.1  The  great  lords, 
the  well-dressed  ladies,  speak  Billingsgate.  When 
Henry  V.  pays  his  court  to  Catherine  of  France,  it  is 
with  the  coarse  bearing  of  a  sailor  who  may  have  taken 
a  fancy  to  a  sutler ;  and  like  the  tars  who  tattoo  a 

1  Act  iv.  2  and  4.     See  also  the  character  of  Calypso  in  Massinger ; 
Putana  in  Ford  ;  Protalyce  in  Beaumout  and  Fletcher. 


368  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  11. 

heart  on  their  arms  to  prove  their  love  for  the  girls  they 
left  behind  them,  there  were  men  who  "  devoured  sulphur 
and  drank  urine  "  l  to  win  their  mistress  by  a  proof  of 
affection.  Humanity  is  as  much  lacking  as  decency.2 
Blood,  suffering,  does  not  move  them.  The  court  fre- 
quents bear  and  bull  baitings,  where  dogs  are  ripped  up 
and  chained  beasts  are  sometimes  beaten  to  death,  and 
it  was,  says  an  officer  of  the  palace,  "  a  charming  en- 
tertainment."3  No  wonder  they  used  their  arms  like 
clodhoppers  and  gossips.  Elizabeth  used  to  beat  her 
maids  of  honour,  "  so  that  these  beautiful  girls  could 
often  be  heard  crying  and  lamenting  in  a  piteous  man- 
ner." One  day  she  spat  upon  Sir  Mathew's  fringed  coat; 
at  another  time,  when  Essex,  whom  she  was  scolding, 
turned  his  back,  she  gave  him  a  box  on  the  ear.  It 
was  then  the  practice  of  great  ladies  to  beat  their 
children  and  their  servants.  Poor  Jane  Grey  was 
sometimes  so  wretchedly  "  boxed,  struck,  pinched,  and 

1  Middleton,  Dutch  Courtezan. 

2  Commission  given  by  Henry  VIII.  to  the  Earl  of  Hertford,  1544  : 
"  You  are  there  to  put  all  to  fire  and  sword  ;  to  burn  Edinburgh 
town,  and  to  raze  and  deface  it,  when  you  have  sacked  it,  and  gotten 
what  you  can  out  of  it.     ...     Do  what  you  can  out  of  hand,  and 
without  long  tarrying,   to  beat  down  and  overthrow  the  castle,  sack 
Holyrood-House,  and  as  many  towns  and  villages  about  Edinburgh  as 
ye  conveniently  can  ;  sack  Leith,  and  burn  and  subvert  it,  and  all  the 
rest,  putting  man,  woman,  and  child  to  fire  and  sword,  without  excep- 
tion, when  any  resistance  shall  be  made  against  you ;  and  this  done, 
pass  over  to  the  Fife  land,  and  extend  like  extremities  and  destructions 
in  all  towns  and  villages  whereunto  ye  may  reach  conveniently,  not 
forgetting  amongst  all  the  rest,  so  to  spoil  and  turn  upside  down  the 
cardinal's  town  of  St.  Andrew's,  as  the  upper  stone  may  be  the  nether, 
and  not  one  stick  stand  by  another,  sparing  no  creature  alive  within 
the  same,  specially  such  as  either  in  friendship  or  blood  be  allied  to 
the  cardinal.      This  journey  shall  succeed    most  to  his    majesty's 
honour." 

*  Laneham,  A  Goodly  Relief. 


Y-I.   P-368. 


LORD    FRANCIS    BACON 


CHAP,  it  THE  THEATRE.  369 

ill-treated  in  other  manners  which  she  dare  not  relate/' 
that  she  used  to  wish  herself  dead.  Their  first  idea  is 
to  come  to  words,  to  blows,  to  have  satisfaction.  As  in 
feudal  times,  they  appeal  at  once  to  arms,  and  retain  the 
habit  of  taking  the  law  in  their  own  hands,  and  without 
delay.  "  On  Thursday  laste,"  writes  Gilbert  Talbot  to 
the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Shrewsbury,  "as  my  Lorde 
Rytche  was  rydynge  in  the  streates,  there  was  one 
Wyndam  that  stode  in  a  dore,  and  shotte  a  dagge  at 
him,  thynkynge  to  have  slayne  him.  .  .  .  The  same  daye, 
also,  as  Sr  John  Conway  was  goynge  in  the  streetes, 
Mr-  Lodovyke  Grevell  came  sodenly  upon  him,  and 
stroke  him  on  the  hedd  wth  a  sworde.  ...  I  am  forced 
to  trouble  yor  Honors  wth  thes  tryflynge  matters,  for  I 
know  no  greater."  l  No  one,  not  even  the  queen,  is 
safe  among  these  violent  dispositions.2  Again,  when 
one  man  struck  another  in  the  precincts  of  the  court, 
his  hand  was  cut  off,  and  the  arteries  stopped  with  a 
red-hot  iron.  Only  such  atrocious  imitations  of  their 
own  crimes,  and  the  painful  image  of  bleeding  and 
suffering  flesh,  could  tame  their  vehemence  and  restrain 
the  uprising  of  their  instincts.  Judge  now  what  mate- 
rials they  furnish  to  the  theatre,  and  what  characters 
they  look  for  at  the  theatre.  To  please  the  public,  the 
stage  cannot  deal  too  much  in  open  lust  and  the  strong- 
est passions ;  it  must  depict  man  attaining  the  limit  of 
his  desires,  unchecked,  almost  mad,  now  trembling  and 
rooted  before  the  white  palpitating  flesh  which  his  eyes 
devour,  now  haggard  and  grinding  his  teeth  before  the 

1  13th  February  1587.  Nathan  Drake,  Shdkspeare  and  hi*  Times, 
ii  p.  165.  See  also  the  same  work  for  all  these  details. 

*  Essex,  when  struck  by  the  queen,  put  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  hia 
sword. 

VOL.  I.  2  B 


370  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

enemy  whom  he  wishes  to  tear  to  pieces,  now  carried 
beyond  himself  and  overwhelmed  at  the  sight  of  the 
honours  and  wealth  which  he  covets,  always  raging  and 
enveloped  in  a  tempest  of  eddying  ideas,  sometimes 
shaken  by  impetuous  joy,  more  often  on  the  verge  of 
fury  and  madness,  stronger,  more  ardent,  more  daringly 
let  loose  to  infringe  on  reason  and  law  than  ever.  We 
hear  from  the  stage  as  from  the  history  of  the  time, 
these  fierce  murmurs :  the  sixteenth  century  is  like  a 
den  of  lions. 

Amid  passions  so  strong  as  these  there  is  not  one  lack- 
ing. Nature  appears  here  in  all  its  violence,  but  also  in 
all  its  fulness.  If  nothing  had  been  weakened,  nothing 
had  been  mutilated.  It  is  the  entire  man  who  is  dis- 
played, heart,  mind,  body,  senses,  with  his  noblest  and 
finest  aspirations,  as  with  his  most  bestial  and  savage 
appetites,  without  the  preponderance  of  any  dominant 
circumstance  to  cast  him  altogether  in  one  direction,  to 
exalt  or  degrade  him.  He  has  not  become  rigid,  as  he 
will  be  under  Puritanism.  He  is  not  uncrowned  as  in 
the  Eestoration.  After  the  hollowness  and  weariness 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  he  rose  up  by  a  second  birth, 
as  before  in  Greece  man  had  risen  by  a  first  birth ;  and 
now,  as  then,  the  temptations  of  the  outer  world  came 
combined  to  raise  his  faculties  from  their  sloth  and 
torpor.  A  sort  of  generous  warmth  spread  over  them 
to  ripen  and  make  them  flourish.  Peace,  prosperity, 
comfort  began;  new  industries  and  increasing  activity 
suddenly  multiplied  objects  of  utility  and  luxury  tenfold. 
America  and  India,  by  their  discovery,  caused  the 
treasures  and  prodigies  heaped  up  afar  over  distant  seas 
to  shine  before  their  eyes;  antiquity  re-discovered, 
sciences  mapped  out,  the  Reformation  begun,  books 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  371 

multiplied  by  printing,  ideas  by  books,  doubled  the 
means  of  enjoyment,  imagination,  and  thought.  People 
wanted  to  enjoy,  to  imagine,  and  to  think;  for  the 
desire  grows  with  the  attraction,  and  here  all  attractions 
were  combined.  There  were  attractions  for  the  senses. 
in  the  chambers  which  they  began  to  warm,  in  the  beds 
newly  furnished  with  pillows,  in  the  coaches  which  they 
began  to  use  for  the  first  time.  There  were  attractions 
for  the  imagination  in  the  new  palaces,  arranged  after 
the  Italian  manner;  in  the  variegated  hangings  from 
Flanders  ;  in  the  rich  garments,  gold-embroidered,  which, 
being  continually  changed,  combined  the  fancies  and  the 
splendours  of  all  Europe.  There  were  attractions  for 
the  mind,  in  the  noble  and  beautiful  wri tings  which, 
spread  abroad,  translated,  explained,  brought  in  philo- 
sophy, eloquence,  and  poetry,  from  restored  antiquity, 
and  from  the  surrounding  Eenaissances.  Under  this 
appeal  all  aptitudes  and  instincts  at  once  started  up ; 
the  low  and  the  lofty,  ideal  and  sensual  love,  gross 
cupidity  and  pure  generosity.  Kecall  what  you  your- 
self experienced,  when  from  being  a  child  you  became  a 
man :  what  wishes  for  happiness,  what  breadth  of 
anticipation,  what  intoxication  of  heart  wafted  you 
towards  all  joys  ;  with  what  impulse  your  hands  seized 
involuntarily  and  all  at  once  every  branch  of  the  tree, 
and  would  not  let  a  single  fruit  escape.  At  sixteen 
years,  like  Cherubin,1  we  wish  for  a  servant  girl  while 
•we  adore  a  Madonna;  we  are  capable  of  every  species 
of  covetousness,  and  also  of  every  species  of  self-denial ; 
we  find  virtue  more  lovely,  our  meals  more  enjoyable ; 
pleasure  has  more  zest,  heroism  more  worth ;  there 
is  no  allurement  which  is  not  keen;  the  sweet- 
1  A  page  in  the  Manage  de  Figaro,  a  comedy  by  Reaumarchais. — TR. 


372  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

ness  and  novelty  of  things  are  too  strong ;  and  in 
the  hive  of  passions  which  buzzes  within  us,  and  stings 
us  like  the  sting  of  a  bee,  we  can  do  nothing  but  plunge, 
one  after  another,  in  all  directions.  Such  were  the 
men  of  this  time,  Ealeigh,  Essex,  Elizabeth,  Henry  VIII. 
himself,  excessive  and  inconstant,  ready  for  devotion 
and  for  crime,  violent  in  good  and  evil,  heroic  with 
strange  weaknesses,  humble  with  sudden  changes  of 
mood,  never  vile  with  premeditation  like  the  roysterers 
of  the  Eestoration,  never  rigid  on  principle  like  the 
Puritans  of  the  Revolution,  capable  of  weeping  like 
children,1  and  of  dying  like  men,  often  base  courtiers, 
more  than  once  true  knights,  displaying  constantly, 
amidst  all  these  contradictions  of  bearing,  only  the 
fulness  of  their  characters.  Thus  prepared,  they  could 
take  in  everything,  sanguinary  ferocity  and  refined  gen- 
erosity, the  brutality  of  shameless  debauchery,  and  the 
most  divine  innocence  of  love,  accept  all  the  characters, 
prostitutes  and  virgins,  princes  and  mountebanks,  pass 
quickly  from  trivial  buffoonery  to  lyrical  sublimities, 
listen  alternately  to  the  quibbles  of  clowns  and  the  songs 
of  lovers.  The  drama  even,  in  order  to  imitate  and  satisfy 
the  fertility  of  their  nature,  must  talk  all  tongues, 
pompous,  inflated  verse,  loaded  with  imagery,  and  side 
by  side  with  this,  vulgar  prose :  more,  it  must  distort 
its  natural  style  and  limits ;  put  songs,  poetical  devices, 
into  the  discourse  of  courtiers  and  the  speeches  of  states- 
men ;  bring  on  the  stage  the  fairy  world  of  the  opera, 
as  Middleton  says,  gnomes,  nymphs  of  the  land  and  sea, 
with  their  groves  and  their  meadows ;  compel  the  gods 
to  descend  upon  the  stage,  and  hell  itself  to  furnish  its 

1  The  great  Chancellor  Burleigh  often  wept,  so  harshly  was  he  used 
by  Elizabeth. 


CHAP,  a  THE  THEATRE.  373 

world  of  marvels.     No  other  theatre  is  so  complicated ; 
for  nowhere  else  do  we  find  men  so  complete. 

III. 

In  this  free  and  universal  expansion,  the  passions  had 
their  special  bent  withal,  which  was  an  English  one, 
inasmuch  as  they  were  English.  After  all,  in  every  age, 
under  every  civilisation,  a  people  is  always  itself. 
Whatever  be  its  dress,  goat-skin  blouse,  gold-laced 
doublet,  black  dress-coat,  the  five  or  six  great  instincts 
which  it  possessed  in  its  forests,  follow  it  in  its  palaces 
and  offices.  To  this  day,  warlike  passions,  a  gloomy 
humour,  subsist  under  the  regularity  and  propriety  of 
modern  manners.1  Their  native  energy  and  harshness 
pierce  through  the  perfection  of  culture  and  the  habits 
of  comfort.  Eich  young  men,  on  leaving  Oxford,  go  to 
hunt  bears  on  the  Eocky  Mountains,  the  elephant  in 
South  Africa,  live  under  canvas,  box,  jump  hedges  on 
horseback,  sail  their  yachts  on  dangerous  coasts,  delight 
in  solitude  and  peril.  The  ancient  Saxon,  the  old  rover 
of  the  Scandinavian  seas,  has  not  perished.  Even  at 
school  the  children  roughly  treat  one  another,  withstand 
one  another,  fight  like  men ;  and  their  character  is  so  in- 
domitable, that  they  need  the  birch  and  blows  to  reduce 
them  to  the  discipline  of  law.  Judge  what  they  were 
in  the  sixteenth  century ;  the  English  race  passed  then 
for  the  most  warlike  of  Europe,  the  most  redoubtable  in 
battle,  the  most  impatient  of  anything  like  slavery.2 

1  Compare,    to  understand   this   character,   the  parts  assigned  to 
James  Harlowe  by  Richardson ,  old  Osborne  by  Thackeray,  Sir  Giles 
Overreach  by  Massinger,  and  Manly  by  Wycherley. 

2  Hentzner's  Travels;  Benvenuto  Cellini.      See  passim,   the  cos- 
tumes printed  in  Venice  and  Germany  :  Bellicosissimi.     Froude,  L  pp. 
19,  52. 


374  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n 

"  English  savages  "  is  what  Cellini  calls  them ;  and  the 
"  great  shins  of  beef "  with  which  they  fill  themselves, 
keep  up  the  force  and  ferocity  of  their  instincts.  To 
harden  them  thoroughly,  institutions  work  in  the  same 
groove  with  nature.  The  nation  is  armed,  every  man 
is  brought  up  like  a  soldier,  bound  to  have  arms  accord- 
ing to  his  condition, "to  exercise  himself  on  Sundays  or 
holidays ;  from  the  yeoman  to  the  lord,  the  old  military 
constitution  keeps  them  enrolled  and  ready  for  action.1 
In  a  state  which  resembles  an  army,  it  is  necessary  that 
punishments,  as  in  an  army,  shall  inspire  terror ;  and  to 
make  them  worse,  the  hideous  Wars  of  the  Roses,  which 
on  every  flaw  of  the  succession  to  the  throne  are  ready 
to  break  out  again,  are  ever  present  in  their  recollection. 
Such  instincts,  such  a  constitution,  such  a  history,  raises 
before  them,  with  tragic  severity,  an  idea  of  life  :  death 
is  at  hand,  as  well  as  wounds,  the  block,  tortures.  The 
fine  cloaks  of  purple  which  the  Eenaissances  of  the  South 
displayed  joyfully  in  the  sun,  to  wear  like  a  holiday 
garment,  are  here  stained  with  blood,  and  edged  with 
black.  Throughout,2  a  stern  discipline,  and  the  axe 
ready  for  every  suspicion  of  treason ;  great  men,  bishops, 
a  chancellor,  princes,  the  king's  relatives,  queens,  a 
protector,  all  kneeling  in  the  straw,  sprinkled  the  Tower 
with  their  blood ;  one  after  the  other  they  marched  past, 
stretched  out  their  necks;  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
Queen  Anne  Boleyn,  Queen  Catherine  Howard,  the 
Earl  of  Surrey,  Admiral  Seymour,  the  Duke  of  Somerset, 
Lady  Jane  Grey  and  her  husband,  the  Duke  of  Nor- 

1  This  is  not  so  true  of  the  English  now,  if  it  was  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  as  it  is  of  continental  nations.  The  French  Iwtes  are  far  znor* 
military  in  character  than  English  schools. — TR. 

*  Froude's  Hist,  of  England,  vola  i,  iL  iii. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  375 

thumbeiiand,  Mary  Stewart,  the  Earl  of  Essex,  all  on 
the  throne,  or  on  the  steps  of  the  throne,  in  the  highest 
rank  of  honours,  beauty,  youth,  and  genius ;  of  the  bright 
procession  nothing  is  left  but  senseless  trunks,  marred 
by  the  tender  mercies  of  the  executioner.  Shall  I 
count  the  funeral  pyres,  the  hangings,  living  men  cut 
down  from  the  gibbet,  disembowelled,  quartered,1  their 
limbs  cast  into  the  fire,  their  heads  exposed  on  the 
walls  ?  There  is  a  page  in  Holinshed  which  reads  like 
a  death  register : 

"The  five  and  twentith  dale  of  Maie  (1535),  was  in  saint 
Paules  church  at  London  examined  nineteene  men  and  six  women 
born  in  Holland,  whose  opinions  were  (heretical).  Fourteene  of 
them  were  condemned,  a  man  and  a  woman  of  them  were  burned 
in  Smithfield,  the  other  twelve  were  sent  to  other  townes,  there 
to  be  burnt.  On  the  nineteenth  of  June  were  three  moonkes  of 
the  Charterhouse  hanged,  drawn e,  and  quartered  at  Tiburue,  and 
their  heads  and  quarters  set  up  about  London,  for  denieng  the 
king  to  be  supreme  head  of  the  church.  Also  the  one  and 
twentith  of  the  same  moneth,  and  for  the  same  cause,  doctor  John 
Fisher,  bishop  of  Rochester,  was  beheaded  for  denieng  of  the 
supremacie,  and  his  head  set  upon  London  bridge,  but  his  bodie 
buried  within  Barking  churchyard.  The  pope  had  elected  him 
a  cardinall,  and  sent  his  hat  as  far  as  Calais,  but  his  head  was 
off  before  his  hat  was  on  :  so  that  they  met  not.  On  the  sixt  of 
Julie  was  Sir  Thomas  Moore  beheaded  for  the  like  crime,  that  is 
to  wit,  for  denieng  the  king  to  be  supreme  head."  2 

None  of  these  murders  seem  extraordinary  ;  the  chroni- 
clers mention  them  without  growing  indignant ;  the 
condemned  go  quietly  to  the  block,  as  if  the  thing  were 

1  "When  his  heart  was  torn  out  he  uttered  a  deep  groan." — Exe- 
tution  of  Parry  ;  Strype,  iii.  251. 

1  Holioshed,  Chronicles  of  England,  iii.  p.  798. 


376  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

perfectly  natural.  Anne  Boleyn  said  seriously,  before 
giving  up  her  head  to  the  executioner :  "  I  praie  God 
save  the  king,  and  send  him  long  to  reigne  over  you, 
for  a  gentler,  nor  a  more  mercifull  prince  was  there 
never."1  Society  is,  as  it  were,  in  a  state  of  siege,  so 
incited  that  beneath  the  idea  of  order  every  one  enter- 
tained the  idea  of  the  scaffold.  They  saw  it,  the 
terrible  machine,  planted  on  all  the  highways  of  human 
life ;  and  the  byways  as  well  as  the  highways  led  to  it. 
A  sort  of  martial  law,  introduced  by  conquests  into 
civil  affairs,  entered  thence  into  ecclesiastical  matters,2 
and  social  economy  ended  by  being  enslaved  by  it.  As 
in  a  camp,3  expenditure,  dress,  the  food  of  each  class, 
are  fixed  and  restricted ;  no  one  might  stray  out  of  his 
district,  be  idle,  live  after  his  own  devices.  Every 
stranger  was  seized,  interrogated ;  if  he  could  not  give 
a  good  account  of  himself,  the  parish-stocks  bruised  his 
limbs ;  as  in  time  of  war  he  would  have  passed  for  a 
spy  and  an  enemy,  if  caught  amidst  the  army.  Any 
person,  says  the  law,4  found  living  idly  or  loiteringly  for 
the  space  of  three  days,  shall  be  marked  with  a  hot 
iron  on  his  breast,  and  adjudged  as  a  slave  to  the  man 
who  shall  inform  against  him.  This  one  "shall  take 
the  same  slave,  and  give  him  bread,  water,  or  small 
drink,  and  refuse  meat,  and  cause  him  to  work,  by 
beating,  chaining,  or  otherwise,  in  such  work  and  labour 
as  he  shall  put  him  to,  be  it  never  so  vile."  He  may 
sell  him,  bequeath  him,  let  him  out  for  hire,  or  trade 
upon  him  "after  the  like  sort  as  they  may  do  of  any 
other  their  moveable  goods  or  chattels,"  put  a  ring  of 
iron  about  his  neck  or  leg  ;  if  he  runs  away  and  absents 

1  Holinshed,  Chronicles  of  England,  iiL  p.  797. 
'  Tinder  Heiiry  IV.  and  Henry  V.         3  ffroude,  i.  15.          *  In  1547. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  377 

himself  for  fourteen  days,  he  is  branded  on  the  forehead 
with  a  hot  iron,  and  remains  a  slave  for  the  whole  of 
his  life ;  if  he  runs  away  a  second  time,  he  is  put  to 
death.  Sometimes,  says  More,  you  might  see  a  score 
of  thieves  hung  on  the  same  gibbet.  In  one  year  * 
forty  persons  were  put  to  death  in  the  county  of 
Somerset  alone,  and  in  each  county  there  were  three  or 
four  hundred  vagabonds  who  would  sometimes  gather 
together  and  rob  in  armed  bands  of  sixty  at  a  time. 
Follow  the  whole  of  this  history  closely,  the  fires  of 
Mary,  the  pillories  of  Elizabeth,  and  it  is  plain  that 
the  moral  tone  of  the  land,  like  its  physical  condition, 
is  harsh  by  comparison  with  other  countries.  They 
have  no  relish  in  their  enjoyments,  as  in  Italy;  what 
is  called  Merry  England  is  England  given  up  to  animal 
spirits,  a  coarse  animation  produced  by  abundant  feed- 
ing, continued  prosperity,  courage,  and  self-reliance; 
voluptuousness  does  not  exist  in  this  climate  and  this 
race.  Mingled  with  the  beautiful  popular  beliefs,  the 
lugubrious  dreams  and  the  cruel  nightmare  of  witchcraft 
make  their  appearance.  Bishop  Jewell,  preaching 
before  the  queen,  tells  her  that  witches  and  sorcerers 
within  these  few  last  years  are  marvellously  increased 
Some  ministers  assert 

"  That  they  have  had  in  their  parish  at  one  instant,  xvij  or 
xviij  witches ;  meaning  such  as  could  worke  miracles  super- 
naturallie ;  that  they  work  spells  by  which  men  pine  away  even 
unto  death,  their  colour  fadeth,  their  flesh  rotteth,  their  speech 
is  benumbed,  their  senses  are  bereft;  that  instructed  by  the 
devil,  they  make  ointments  of  the  bowels  and  members  of  child- 
ren, whereby  they  ride  in  the  aire,  and  accomplish  all  their  de- 
sires. When  a  child  is  not  baptized,  or  defended  by  the  sign  of 
1  In  15^5. 


378  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

the  cross,  then  the  witches  catch  them  from  their  mothers  sides 
in  the  night  .  .  .  kill  them  ...  or  after  buriall  steale  them 
out  of  their  graves,  and  seeth  them  in  a  caldron,  untill  their 
flesh  be  made  potable.  ...  It  is  an  infallible  rule,  that  everie 
fortnight,  or  at  the  least  everie  moneth,  each  witch  must  kill 
one  child  at  the  least  for  hir  part."  • 

Here  was  something  to  make  the  teeth  chatter  with 
fright.  Add  to  this  revolting  and  absurd  descriptions, 
wretched  tomfooleries,  details  about  the  infernal  caul- 
dron, all  the  nastinesses  which  could  haunt  the  trite 
imagination  of  a  hideous  and  drivelling  old  woman, 
and  you  have  the  spectacles,  provided  by  Middleton 
and  Shakspeare,  and  which  suit  the  sentiments  of  the 
age  and  the  national  humour.  The  fundamental  gloom 
pierces  through  the  glow  and  rapture  of  poetry.  Mourn- 
ful legends  have  multiplied ;  every  churchyard  has  its 
ghost;  wherever  a  man  has  been  murdered  his  spirit 
appears.  Many  people  dare  not  leave  their  village 
after  sunset.  In  the  evening,  before  bed-time,  men 
talk  of  the  coach  which  is  seen  drawn  by  headless 
horses,  with  headless  postilions  and  coachmen,  or  of 
unhappy  spirits  who,  compelled  to  inhabit  the  plain, 
under  the  sharp  north-east  wind,  pray  for  the  shelter 
of  a  hedge  or  a  valley.  They  dream  terribly  of  death : 

"  To  die  and  go  we  know  not  where  ; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction  and  to  rot ; 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod  ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice ; 
To  be  imprison'd  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world  ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 


CHAP.  IL  THE  THEATRE.  379 

Of  those  that  lawless  and  iucertain  thought 
Imagine  howling  :  'tis  too  horrible  ! "  * 

The  greatest  speak  with  a  sad  resignation  of  the  infinite 
obscurity  which  embraces  our  poor,  short,  glimmering 
life,  our  life,  which  is  but  a  troubled  dream  ;2  the  sad 
state  of  humanity,  which  is  but  passion,  madness,  and 
sorrow ;  the  human  being  who  is  himself,  perhaps,  but 
a  vain  phantom,  a  grievous  sick  man's  dream.  In 
their  eyes  we  roll  down  a  fatal  slope,  where  chance 
dashes  us  one  against  the  other,  and  the  inner  destiny 
which  urges  us  onward,  only  shatters  after  it  has  blinded 
us.  And  at  the  end  of  all  is  "the  silent  grave,  no 
conversation,  no  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of 
lovers,  no  careful  father's  counsel ;  nothing's  heard,  nor 
nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion,  dust,  and  endless  darkness."3 
If  yet  there  were  nothing.  "  To  die,  to  sleep ;  to  sleep, 
perchance  to  dream."  To  dream  sadly,  to  fall  into  a 
nightmare  like  the  nightmare  of  life,  like  that  in  which 
we  are  struggling  and  crying  to-day,  gasping  with 
hoarse  throat ! — this  is  their  idea  of  man  and  of  exist- 
ence, the  national  idea,  which  fills  the  stage  with 
calamities  and  despair,  which  makes  a  display  of  tortures 
«md  massacres,  which  abounds  in  madness  and  crime, 
which  holds  up  death  as  the  issue  throughout.  A 
threatening  and  sombre  fog  veils  their  mind  like  their 
sky,  and  joy,  like  the  sun,  only  appears  in  its  full  force 
now  and  then.  They  are  different  from  the  Latin  race. 

1  Shaksp«are,  Measure  for  Measure,  Act  iii.  1.     See  also  The  Tern 
pest,  Hamfrt,  Macbeth. 

2  "  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." — Tempest,  iv.  1. 
*  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Thierry  and  Theodoret,  Act  iv.  1. 


380  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

and  in  the  common  Renaissance  they  are  regenerated 
otherwise  than  the  Latin  races.  The  free  and  full 
development  of  pure  nature  which,  in  Greece  and  Italy, 
ends  in  the  painting  of  beauty  and  happy  energy,  ends 
here  in  the  painting  of  ferocious  energy,  agony,  and 
death. 

IV. 

Thus  was  this  theatre  produced ;  a  theatre  unique  in 
history,  like  the  admirable  and  fleeting  epoch  from  which 
it  sprang,  the  work  and  the  picture  of  this  young  world, 
as  natural,  as  unshackled,  and  as  tragic  as  itself.  When 
an  original  and  national  drama  springs  up,  the  poets  who 
establish  it,  carry  in  themselves  the  sentiments  which 
it  represents.  They  display  better  than  other  men  the 
feelings  of  the  public,  because  those  feelings  are  stronger 
in  them  than  in  other  men.  The  passions  which  sur- 
round them,  break  forth  in  their  heart  with  a  harsher 
or  a  juster  cry,  and  hence  their  voices  become  the  voices 
of  all.  Chivalric  and  Catholic  Spain  had  her  interpre- 
ters in  her  enthusiasts  and  her  Don  Quixotes :  in 
Calderon,  first  a  soldier,  afterwards  a  priest;  in  Lope 
de  Vega,  a  volunteer  at  fifteen,  a  passionate  lover,  a 
wandering  duellist,  a  soldier  of  the  Armada,  finally,  a 
priest  and  familiar  of  the  Holy  Office ;  so  full  of  fervour 
that  he  fasts  till  he  is  exhausted,  faints  with  emotion 
while  singing  mass,  and  in  his  flagellations  stains  the 
walls  of  his  cell  with  blood.  Calm  and  noble  Greece 
had  in  her  principal  tragic  poet  one  of  the  most  accom- 
plished and  fortunate,  of  her  sons : *  Sophocles,  first  in 
song  and  palaestra ;  who  at  fifteen  sang,  unclad,  the 
peean  before  the  trophy  of  Salamis,  and  who  afterwards, 

1  bitirovtiOij  6"  ev  waial  Kal  irepl  ira\ai<rrpav  ical  fiov<riKT]i>,  4£  wv  d/J.<f>o- 
rtouv  lffTt<f>a.v{aOii  .  .  .  <&<.\a6r]va.i.6Ta.To*  Kal  0«o0tX7js. — Scholiast. 


CHAF-.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  881 

as  ambassador,  general,  ever  loving  the  gods  and  im- 
passioned for  his  state,  presented,  in  his  life  as  in  his 
works,  the  spectacle  of  the  incomparable  harmony  which 
made  the  beauty  of  the  ancient  world,  and  which  the 
modern  world  will  never  more  attain  to.  Eloquent  and 
worldly  France,  in  the  age  which  carried  the  art  of  good 
manners  and  conversation  to  its  highest  pitch,  finds,  to 
write  her  oratorical  tragedies  and  to  paint  her  drawing- 
room  passions,  the  most  able  craftsman  of  words,  Racine, 
a  courtier,  a  man  of  the  world  ;  the  most  capable,  by  the 
delicacy  of  his  tact  and  the  adaptation  of  his  style,  of 
making  men  of  the  world  and  courtiers  speak.  So  in 
England  the  poets  are  in  harmony  with  their  works. 
Almost  all  are  Bohemians ;  they  sprung  from  the 
people,1  were  educated,  and  usually  studied  at  Oxford 
or  Cambridge,  but  they  were  poor,  so  that  their  educa- 
tion contrasts  with  their  condition.  Ben  Jonson  is  the 
step-son  of  a  bricklayer,  and  himself  a  bricklayer; 
Marlowe  is  the  son  of  a  shoemaker ;  Shakspeare  of  a 
wool  merchant;  Massinger  of  a  servant  of  a  noble 
family.2  They  live  as  they  can,  get  into  debt,  write  for 
their  bread,  go  on  the  stage.  Peele,  Lodge,  Marlowe, 
Ben  Jonson,  Shakspeare,  Hey  wood,  are  actors ;  most  of 
the  details  which  we  have  of  their  lives  are  taken  from 
the  journal  of  Henslowe,  a  retired  pawnbroker,  later  a 
money-lender  and  manager  of  a  theatre,  who  gives  them 
work,  advances  money  to  them,  receives  their  manu- 
scripts or  their  wardrobes  as  security.  For  a  play  he 

1  Except  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

2  Hartley  Coleridge,  in  his  Introduction  to  the  Dramatic  Works  of 
Massinger  and  Ford,  says  of  Mussinger's  father  :  "We  are  not  certified 
of  the  situation  which  he  held  in  the  noble  household  (Earl  of  Pem- 
broke), but  we  may  be  sure  that  it  was  neither  menial  nor  mean. 
Service  in  those  days  was  not  derogatory  to  gentle  birth," — TB. 


382  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

gives  seven  or  eight  pounds  ;  after  the  year  1600  prices 
rise,  and  reach  as  high  as  twenty  or  twenty-five  pounds. 
It  is  clear  that,  even  after  this  increase,  the  trade  of 
author  scarcely  brings  in  bread.  In  order  to  earn 
money,  it  was  necessary,  like  Shakspeare,  to  become  a 
manager,  to  try  to  have  a  share  in  the  property  of  a 
theatre;  but  such  success  is  rare,  and  the  life  which 
they  lead,  a  life  of  actors  and  artists,  improvident, 
full  of  excess,  lost  amid  debauchery  and  acts  of  vio- 
lence, amidst  women  of  evil  fame,  in  contact  with 
young  profligates,  among  the  temptations  of  misery, 
imagination  and  licence,  generally  leads  them  to  ex- 
haustion, poverty,  and  death.  Men  received  enjoyment 
from  them,  but  neglected  and  despised  them.  One 
actor,  for  a  political  allusion,  was  sent  to  prison,  and 
only  just  escaped  losing  his  ears;  great  men,  men  in 
office,  abused  them  like  servants.  Heywood,  who 
played  almost  every  day,  bound  himself,  in  addition, 
to  write  a  sheet  daily,  for  several  years  composes  at 
haphazard  in  taverns,  labours  and  sweats  like  a  true 
literary  hack,  and  dies  leaving  two  hundred  and  twenty 
pieces,  of  which  most  are  lost.  Kyd,  one  of  the  earliest 
in  date,  died  in  misery.  Shirley,  one  of  the  last,  at  the 
end  of  his  career,  was  obliged  to  become  once  more  a 
schoolmaster.  Massinger  dies  unknown;  and  in  the 
parish  register  we  find  only  this  sad  mention  of  him : 
"  Philip  Massinger,  a  stranger."  A  few  months  after 
the  death  of  Middleton,  his  widow  was  obliged  to  ask 
alms  of  the  City,  because  he  had  left  nothing.  Imagin- 
ation, as  Drummond  said  of  Ben  Jonson,  oppressed  their 
reason ;  it  is  the  common  failing  of  poets.  They  wish 
to  enjoy,  and  give  themselves  wholly  up  to  enjoyment ; 
their  mood,  their  heart  governs  them ;  in  their  life,  as 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  383 

in  their  works,  impulses  are  irresistible ;  desire  conies 
suddenly,  like  a  wave,  drowning  reason,  resistance — 
often  even  giving  neither  reason  nor  resistance  time  to 
show  themselves.1  Many  are  roysterers,  sad  roysterers 
of  the  same  sort,  such  as  Musset  and  Murger,  who  give 
themselves  up  to  every  passion,  and  "drown  their 
sorrows  in  the  bowl ; "  capable  of  the  purest  and  most 
poetic  dreams,  of  the  most  delicate  and  touching  tender- 
ness, and  who  yet  can  only  undermine  their  health  and 
mar  their  fame.  Such  are  Nash,  Decker,  and  Greene ; 
Nash,  a  fantastic  satirist,  who  abused  his  talent,  and 
conspired  like  a  prodigal  against  good  fortune ;  Decker, 
who  passed  three  years  in  the  King's  Bench  prison ; 
Greene,  above  all,  a  pleasing  wit,  copious,  graceful,  who 
took  a  delight  in  destroying  himself,  publicly  with  tears 
confessing  his  vices,2  and  the  next  moment  plunging 
into  them  again.  These  are  mere  androgynes,  true 
courtesans,  in  manners,  body,  and  heart.  Quitting 
Cambridge,  "  with  good  fellows  as  free-living  as  himself," 
Greene  had  travelled  over  Spain,  Italy,  "  in  which  places 
he  sawe  and  practizde  such  villainie  as  is  abhominable 
to  declare."  You  see  the  poor  man  is  candid,  not  spar- 
ing himself ;  he  is  natural ;  passionate  in  everything, 
repentance  or  otherwise;  above  all  of  ever- varying  mood ; 
made  for  self-contradiction ;  not  self-correction.  On  his 
return  he  became,  in  London,  a  supporter  of  taverns, 

1  See,  amongst  others,  The  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness,  by  Hey- 
wood.  Mrs.  Frankfort,  so  upright  of  heart,  accepts  Wendoll  at  his 
first  offer.  Sir  Francis  Acton,  at  the  sight  of  her  whom  he  wishes  to 
dishonour,  and  whom  he  hates,  falls  "  into  an  ecstasy,"  and  dreams  of 
nothing  save  marriage.  Compare  the  sudden  transport  of  Juliet, 
Borneo,  Macbeth,  Miranda,  etc.  ;  the  counsel  of  Prospero  to  Fernando, 
when  he  leaves  him  alone  for  a  moment  with  Miranda. 

1  Compare  La  Vie  de  Bohtme  and  Les  Nuits  d'Hiver,  by  Murger ; 
Confession  d'un  Enfant  du  Sitcle,  by  A.  de  Musset 


384  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

a  haunter  of  evil  places.     In  his  Groalsworth  of  Wit 
bought  with  a  Million  of  Repentance  he  says : 

"  I  was  dround  in  pride,  whoredom  was  my  daily  exercise,  and 
gluttony  with  drunkenness  was  my  onely  delight.  .  .  .  After  I 
had  wholly  betaken  me  to  the  penning  of  plaies  (which  was  my 
continuall  exercise)  I  was  so  far  from  calling  upon  God  that  I 
sildome  thought  on  God,  but  tooke  such  delight  in  swearing  and 
blaspheming  the  name  of  God  that  none  could  thinke  otherwise 
of  me  than  that  I  was  the  child  of  perdition.  These  vanities 
and  other  trifling  pamphlets  I  penned  of  love  and  vaine  fantasies 
was  my  chiefest  stay  of  living ;  and  for  those  my  vaine  discourses 
I  was  beloved  of  the  more  vainer  sort  of  people,  who  being  my 
continuall  companions,  came  still  to  my  lodging,  and  there  would 
continue  quaffing,  carowsing,  and  surfeting  with  me  all  the  day 
long.  ...  If  I  may  have  my  disire  while  I  live  I  am  satisfied  ; 
let  me  shift  after  death  as  I  may.  .  .  .  '  Hell ! '  quoth  I ; 
'  what  talke  you  of  hell  to  me  ?  I  know  if  I  once  come  there 
I  shall  have  the  company  of  better  men  than  myselfe ;  I  shall 
also  meete  with  some  madde  knaves  in  that  place,  and  so  long  as 
I  shall  not  sit  there  alone,  my  care  is  the  lesse.  ...  If  I  feared 
the  judges  of  the  bench  no  more  than  I  dread  the  judgments  of 
God  I  would  before  I  slept  dive  into  one  carles  bagges  or  other, 
and  make  merrie  with  the  shelles  I  found  in  them  so  long  as  they 
would  last.' " 

A  little  later  he  is  seized  with  remorse,  marries,  depicts 
in  delicious  verse  the  regularity  and  calm  of  an  upright 
life ;  then  returns  to  London,  spends  his  property  and 
his  wife's  fortune  with  "  a  sorry  ragged  queane,"  in  the 
company  of  ruffians,  pimps,  sharpers,  courtesans ;  drink- 
ing, blaspheming,  wearing  himself  out  by  sleepless 
nights  and  orgies ;  writing  for  bread,  sometimes  amid 
the  brawling  and  effluvia  of  his  wretched  lodging, 
lighting  upon  thoughts  of  adoration  and  love,  worthy 


V-I.  P-384. 


SIR   THOMAS    MORE 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  385 

of  Eolla ; l  very  often  disgusted  with  himself,  seized 
with  a  fit  of  weeping  between  two  merry  bouts,  and  writ- 
ing little  pieces  to  accuse  himself,  to  regret  his  wife,  to 
convert  his  comrades,  or  to  warn  young  people  against 
the  tricks  of  prostitutes  and  swindlers.  He  was  soon 
worn  out  by  this  kind  of  life ;  six  years  were  enough  to 
exhaust  him.  An  indigestion  arising  from  Rhenish 
wine  and  pickled  herrings  finished  him.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  his  landlady,  who  succoured  him,  he  "  would 
have  perished  in  the  streets."  He  lasted  a  little  longer, 
and  then  his  light  went  out ;  now  and  then  he  begged 
her  "  pittifully  for  a  penny  pott  of  malmesie ;"  he  was 
covered  with  lice,  he  had  but  one  shirt,  and  when  his 
own  was  "  a  washing,"  he  was  obliged  to  borrow  her 
husband's.  "His  doublet  and  hose  and  sword  were 
sold  for  three  shillinges,"  and  the  poor  folks  paid  the 
cost  of  his  burial,  four  shillings  for  the  winding-sheet, 
and  six  and  fourpence  for  the  burial. 

In  such  low  places,  on  such  dunghills,  amid  such 
excesses  and  violence,  dramatic  genius  forced  its  way, 
and  amongst  others,  that  of  the  first,  of  the  most  power- 
ful, of  the  true  founder  of  the  dramatic  school,  Christo- 
pher Marlowe. 

Marlowe  was  an  ill-regulated,  dissolute,  outrageously 
vehement  and  audacious  spirit,  but  grand  and  sombre, 
with  the  genuine  poetic  frenzy;  pagan  moreover,  and 
rebellious  in  manners  and  creed.  In  this  universal 
return  to  the  senses,  and  in  this  impulse  of  natural 
forces  which  brought  on  the  Renaissance,  the  corporeal 
instincts  and  the  ideas  which  hallow  them,  break  forth 
impetuously.  Marlowe,  like  Greene,  like  Kett,2  is  a 

1  The  hero  of  one  of  Alfivd  de  Musset's  po«ms.— TE. 

2  Burnt  in  1589. 
VOL.  I.  2  C 


386  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

sceptic,  denies  God  and  Christ,  blasphemes  the  Trinity, 
declares  Moses  "  a  juggler,"  Christ  more  worthy  of 
death  than  Barabbas,  says  that  "yf  he  wer  to  write  a 
new  religion,  he  wolde  undertake  both  a  more  excellent 
and  more  admirable  methode,"  and  "  almost  in  every 
company  he  commeth,  perswadeth  men  to  Athiesme."  ] 
Such  were  the  rages,  the  rashnesses,  the  excesses  which 
liberty  of  thought  gave  rise  to  in  these  new  minds, 
who  for  the  first  time,  after  so  many  centuries,  dared 
to  walk  unfettered.  From  his  father's  shop,  crowded 
with  children,  from  the  straps  and  awls,  he  found  him- 
self studying  at  Cambridge,  probably  through  the 
patronage  of  a  great  man,  and  on  his  return  to  London, 
in  want,  amid  the  licence  of  the  green-room,  the  low 
houses  and  taverns,  his  head  was  in  a  ferment,  and  his 
passions  became  excited.  He  turned  actor ;  but  having 
broken  his  leg  in  a  scene  of  debauchery,  he  remained 
lame,  and  could  no  longer  appear  on  the  boards.  He 
openly  avowed  his  infidelity,  and  a  prosecution  was 
begun,  which,  if  time  had  not  failed,  would  probably 
have  brought  him  to  the  stake.  He  made  love  to  a 
drab,  and  in  trying  to  stab  his  rival,  his  hand  was 
turned,  so  that  his  own  blade  entered  his  eye  and  his 
brain,  and  he  died,  cursing  and  blaspheming.  He  was 
only  thirty  years  old. 

Think  what  poetry  could  emanate  from  a  life  so 
passionate,  and  occupied  in  such  a  manner !  First, 
exaggerated  declamation,  heaps  of  murder,  atrocities,  a 
pompous  and  furious  display  of  tragedy  bespattered 
with  blood,  and  passions  raised  to  a  pitch  of  madness. 
All  the  foundations  of  the  English  stage,  Ferrer  and 

1  I  have  used  Marlowe's  Works,  ed.  Dyce,  3  vols.,  1850.  Append. 
L  voL  3.— TR. 


CHAP.  IT.  THE  THEATRE.  387 

Porrex,  Cambyses,  Hieronymo,  even  the  Pericles  of  Shak- 
speare,  reach  the  same  height  of  extravagance,  magnilo- 
quence, and  horror.1  It  is  the  first  outbreak  of  youth, 
liecall  Schiller's  Robbers,  and  how  modern  democracy  has 
recognised  for  the  first  time  its  picture  in  the  metaphors 
and  cries  of  Charles  Moor.2  So  here  the  characters 
struggle  and  roar,  stamp  on  the  earth,  gnash  their 
teeth,  shake  their  fists  against  heaven.  The  trumpets 
sound,  the  drums  beat,  coats  of  mail  file  past,  armies 
clash,  men  stab  each  other,  or  themselves ;  speeches 
are  full  of  gigantic  threats  and  lyrical  figures ; 3  kings 
die,  straining  a  bass  voice ;  "  now  doth  ghastly  death 
with  greedy  talons  gripe  my  bleeding  heart,  and  like  a 
harpy  tires  on  my  life."  The  hero  in  Tamburlaine  the 
Great 4  is  seated  on  a  chariot  drawn  by  chained  kings ; 

1  See  especially  Titus  Andronicus,  attributed  to  Shakspeare  :  there 
are  parricides,  mothers  whom  they  cause  to  eat  their  children,  a  young 
girl  who  appears  on  the  stage  violated,  with  her  tongue  and  hands  cut 
off. 

2  The  chief  character  in  Schiller's  Bobbers,  a  virtuous  brigand  and 
redresser  of  wrongs. — TK. 

3\  For  in  a  field,  whose  superficies 
Is  cover'd  with  a  liqxiid  purple  veil, 
And  sprinkled  with  the  brains  of  slaughter'd  men, 
My  royal  chair  of  state  shall  be  advanc'd  ; 
And  he  that  means  to  place  himself  therein, 
Must  armed  wade  up  to  the  chin  in  blood.  .  .  . 
And  I  would  strive  to  swim  through  pools  of  blood, 
Or  make  a  bridge  of  murder'd  carcasses, 
Whose  arches  should  be  fram'd  with  bones  of  Turks, 
Ere  I  would  lose  the  title  of  a  king. 

Tamburlaine,  part  ii.  i.  3. 

4  The  editor  of  Marlowe's  Works,  Pickering,  1826,  says  in  his 
Introduction  :  "  Both  the  matter  and  style  of  Tamburlaine,  however, 
differ  materially  from  Marlowe's  other  compositions,  and  doubts  have 
more  than  once  been  suggested  as  to  whether  the  play  was  properly 
assigned  to  him.  We  think  that  Marlowe  did  not  write  it."  Dyce  ii 
of  a  contrary  opinion. — TB. 


388  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  it. 

he  burns  towns,  drowns  women  and  children,  puts  men  io 
the  sword,  and  finally,  seized  with  an  inscrutable  sick- 
ness, raves  in  monstrous  outcries  against  the  gods, 
whose  hands  afflict  his  soul,  and  whom  he  would  fain 
dethrone.  There  already  is  the  picture  of  senseless 
pride,  of  blind  and  murderous  rage,  which  passing 
through  many  devastations,  at  last  arms  against  heaven 
itself.  The  overflowing  of  savage  and  immoderate 
instinct  produces  this  mighty  sounding  verse,  this 
prodigality  of  carnage,  this  display  of  splendours  and 
exaggerated  colours,  this  railing  of  demoniacal  passions, 
this  audacity  of  grand  impiety.  If  in  the  dramas 
which  succeed  it,  The  Massacre  at  Paris,  The  Jew  of 
Malta,  the  bombast  decreases,  the  violence  remains. 
Barabas  the  Jew  maddened  with  hate,  is  thenceforth 
no  longer  human  ;  he  has  been  treated  by  the  Christians 
like  a  beast,  and  he  hates  them  like  a  beast.  He 
advises  his  servant  Ithamore  in  the  following  words : 

"  Hast  thou  no  trade  1  then  listen  to  my  words, 
And  I  will  teach  thee  that  shall  stick  by  thee  : 
First,  be  thou  void  of  these  affections. 
Compassion,  love,  vain  hope,  and  heartless  fear ; 
Be  mov'd  at  nothing,  see  thou  pity  none, 
But  to  thyself  smile  when  the  Christians  moan. 
...  I  walk  abroad  a-nights, 

.  And  kill  sick  people  groaning  under  walls ; 
Sometimes  I  go  about  and  poison  wells.  .  .  . 
Being  young,  I  studied  physic,  and  began 
To  practise  first  upon  the  Italian  ; 
There  I  enrich'd  the  priests  with  burials, 
And  always  kept  the  sexton's  arms  in  ure 
With  digging  graves  and  ringing  dead  men's  knells.  ... 
I  fill'd  the  jails  with  bankrouts  in  a  year, 
And  with  young  orphans  planted  hospitals  ; 


CHAP.  ;r.  THE  THEATRE.  389 

And  every  moon  made  some  or  other  mad, 
And  now  and  then  one  hang  himself  for  grief, 
Pinning  upon  his  breast  a  long  great  scroll 
How  I  with  interest  tormented  him." l 

All  these  cruelties  he  boasts  of  and  chuckles  over,  like 
a  demon  who  rejoices  in  being  a  good  executioner,  and 
plunges  his  victims  in  the  very  extremity  of  anguish. 
His  daughter  has  two  Christian  suitors ;  and  by  forged 
letters  he  causes  them  to  slay  each  other.  In  despair 
she  takes  the  veil,  and  to  avenge  himself  he  poisons  his 
daughter  and  the  whole  convent.  Two  friars  wish  to 
denounce  him,  then  to  convert  him ;  he  strangles  the 
first,  and  jokes  with  his  slave  Ithamore,  a  cut-throat  by 
profession,  who  loves  his  trade,  rubs  his  hands  with  joy, 
and  says : 

"  Pull  amain, 

"  Tis  neatly  done,  sir  ;  here's  no  print  at  all. 
So,  let  him  lean  upon  his  staff ;  excellent !  he  stands  as  if  he 

were  begging  of  bacon." 2 

"  0  mistress,  I  have  the  bravest,  gravest,  secret,  subtle,  bottle- 
nosed  knave  to  my  master,  that  ever  gentleman  had."3 

The  second  friar  comes  up,  and  they  accuse  him  of  the 
murder  : 

"  Barabas.  Heaven  bless  me  !  what,  a  friar  a  murderer  ! 
When  shall  you  see  a  Jew  commit  the  like  ? 

Itliamore.  Why,  a  Turk  could  ha'  done  no  more. 

Bar.  To-morrow  is  the  sessions  ;  you  shall  to  it — 
Come  Ithamore,  let's  help  to  take  him  hence. 

Friar.  Villains,  I  am  a  sacred  person  ;  touch  me  not 

Bar.  The  law  shall  touch  you  ;  we'll  but  lead  you,  we : 
'Las,  I  could  weep  at  your  calamity  ! "  4 

1  Marlowe's  The  Jew  of  Malta,  ii.  p.  275  et  passim 
9  Ibid.  iv.  p.  311.        3  Ibid.  iii.  p.  291.         «  Ibid.  iv.  p.  313. 


390  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

We  have  also  two  other  poisonings,  an  infernal  machine 
to  blow  up  the  Turkish  garrison,  a  plot  to  cast  the 
Turkish  commander  into  a  well.  Barabas  falls  into 
it  himself,  and  dies  in  the  hot  cauldron,1  howling, 
hardened,  remorseless,  having  but  one  regret,  that  he 
had  not  done  evil  enough.  These  are  the  ferocities  of 
the  middle-age ;  we  might  find  them  to  this  day  among 
the  companions  of  Ali  Pacha,  among  the  pirates  of  the 
Archipelago;  we  retain  pictures  of  them  in  the  paintings 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  which  represent  a  king  with  his 
court,  seated  calmly  round  a  living  man  who  is  being 
flayed ;  in  the  midst  the  flayer  on  his  knees  is  working 
conscientiously,  very  careful  not  to  spoil  the  skin.2 

All  this  is  pretty  strong,  you  will  say ;  these  people 
kill  too  readily,  and  too  quickly.  It  is  on  this  very 
account  that  the  painting  is  a  true  one.  For  the 
specialty  of  the  men  of  the  time,  as  of  Marlowe's  cha- 
racters, is  the  abrupt  commission  of  a  deed ;  they  are 
children,  robust  children.  As  a  horse  kicks  out  instead 
of  speaking,  so  they  pull  out  their  knives  instead  of 
asking  an  explanation.  Nowadays  we  hardly  know 
what  nature  is ;  instead  of  observing  it  we  still  retain 
the  benevolent  prejudices  of  the  eighteenth  century;  we 
only  see  it  humanised  by  two  centuries  of  culture,  and 
we  take  its  acquired  calm  for  an  innate  moderation. 
The  foundations  of  the  natural  man  are  irresistible 
impulses,  passions,  desires,  greeds ;  all  blind.  He  sees 
a^  woman,3  thinks  her  beautiful;  suddenly  he  rushes 
towards  her ;  people  try  to  restrain  him,  he  kills  these 

1  Up  to  this  time,  in  England,  poisoners  were  cast  into  a  boiling 
cauldron.  J  In  the  Museum  of  Ghent. 

3  See  in  the  Jew  of  Malta  the  seduction  of  Ithamore,  by  Bellamira, 
a  rough,  but  truly  admirable  pictme. 


CHAP,  ti  THE  THEATRE.  391 

people,  gluts  his  passion,  then  thinks  no  more  of  it,  save 
when  at  times  a  vague  picture  of  a  moving  lake  of 
blood  crosses  his  brain  and  makes  him  gloomy.  Sudden 
and  extreme  resolves  are  confused  in  his  mind  with 
desire;  barely  planned,  the  thing  is  done;  the  wide 
interval  which  a  Frenchman  places  between  the  idea  of 
an  action  and  the  action  itself  is  not  to  be  found  here.  l 
Barabas  conceived  murders,  and  straightway  murders 
were  accomplished ;  there  is  no  deliberation,  no  pricks 
of  conscience ;  that  is  how  he  commits  a  score  of  them  ; 
his  daughter  leaves  him,  he  becomes  unnatural,  and 
poisons  her;  his  confidential  servant  betrays  him,  he 
disguises  himself,  and  poisons  him.  Eage  seizes  these 
men  like  a  fit,  and  then  they  are  forced  to  kill.  Ben- 
venuto  Cellini  relates  how,  being  offended,  he  tried  to 
restrain  himself,  but  was  nearly  suffocated;  and  that 
in  order  to  cure  himself,  he  rushed  with  his  dagger  upon 
his  opponent.  So,  in  Edward  II.,  the  nobles  immediately 
appeal  to  arms ;  all  is  excessive  and  unforeseen  :  be- 
tween two  replies  the  heart  is  turned  upside  down,  trans- 
ported to  the  extremes  of  hate  or  tenderness.  Edward, 
seeing  his  favourite  Gaveston  again,  pours  out  before 
him  his  treasure,  casts  his  dignities  at  his  feet,  gives 
him  his  seal,  himself,  and,  on  a  threat  from  the  Bishop 
of  Coventry,  suddenly  cries  : 

"  Throw  off  his  golden  initre,  rend  his  stole, 
And  in  the  channel  christen  him  anew."  2 

1  Nothing  could  be  falser  than  the  hesitation  and  arguments  of  Schil- 
ler's William  Tell ;  for  a  contrast,  see  Goethe's  Goetz  von  Berlichingen. 
In  1377,  Wiclif  pleaded  in  St.  Paul's  before  the  Bishop  of  London,  and 
that  raised  a  quarrel.  The  Duke  of  Lancaster,  Wiclifs  protector, 
"  threatened  to  drag  the  bishop  out  of  the  church  by  the  hair ;"  and 
next  day  the  furious  crowd  sacked  the  duke's  palace. 

8  Marlowe,  Edward  the  Second,  i.  p.  173. 


3S2  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  li. 

Then,  when  the  queen  supplicates : 

"  Fawn  not  on  me,  French  strumpet !  get  thee  gone.  .  .  . 
Speak  not  unto  her :  let  her  droop  and  pine."1 

Furies  and  hatreds  clash  together  like  horsemen  in 
battle.  The  Earl  of  Lancaster  draws  his  sword  on 
Gaveston  to  slay  him,  before  the  king;  Mortimer 
wounds  Gaveston.  These  powerful  loud  voices  growl ; 
the  noblemen  will  not  even  let  a  dog  approach  the 
prince,  and  rob  them  of  their  rank.  Lancaster  says  of 
Gaveston : 

"  ....  He  comes  not  back, 
Unless  the  sea  cast  up  his  shipwrack'd  body. 

Warwick.  And  to  behold  so  sweet  a  sight  as  that, 
There's  none  here  but  would  run  his  horse  to  death."  2 

They  have  seized  Gaveston,  and  intend  to  hang  him  "  at 
a  bough .;"  they  refuse  to  let  him  speak  a  single  minute 
with  the  king.  In  vain  they  are  entreated ;  when  they 
do  at  last  consent,  they  are  sorry  for  it ;  it  is  a  prey 
they  want  immediately,  and  Warwick,  seizing  him  by 
force,  "  strake  off  his  head  in  a  trench."  Those  are  the 
men  of  the  middle-age.  They  have  the  fierceness,  the 
tenacity,  the  pride  of  big,  well-fed,  thorough-bred  bull- 
dogs. It  is  this  sternness  and  impetuosity  of  primitive 
passions  which  produced  the  Wars  of  the  Eoses,  and  for 
thirty  years  drove  the  nobles  on  each  other's  swords  and 
to  the  block. 

What  is  there  beyond  all  these  frenzies  and  gluttings 
of  blood?  The  idea  of  crushing  necessity  and  inevit- 
able ruin  in  which  everything  sinks  and  comes  to  an 
end.  Mortimer,  brought  to  the  block,  says  with  a 
smile: 

1  Marlowe,  Edward  the  Second,  p.  186.  *  Ibid.  p.  188. 


CHAP.  n.  THE  THEATRE.  393 

"  Base  Fortune,  now  I  see,  that  in  thy  wheel 
There  is  a  point,  to  which  when  men  aspire, 
They  tumble  headlong  down  :  that  point  I  touch'd, 
And,  seeing  there  was  no  place  to  mount  up  higher, 
Why  should  I  grieve  at  my  declining  fall  1 — 
Farewell,  fair  queen ;  weep  not  for  Mortimer, 
That  scorns  the  world,  and,  as  a  traveller, 
Goes  to  discover  countries  yet  unknown." l 

Weigh  well  these  grand  words ;  they  are  a  cry  from  the 
heart,  the  profound  confession  of  Marlowe,  as  also  of 
Byron,  and  of  the  old  sea-kings.  The  northern  pagan- 
ism is  fully  expressed  in  this  heroic  and  mournful  sigh  : 
it  is  thus  they  imagine  the  world  so  long  as  they  remain 
on  the  outside  of  Christianity,  or  as  soon  as  they  quit 
it.  Thus,  when  men  see  in  life,  as  they  did,  nothing  but 
a  battle  of  unchecked  passions,  and  in  death  but  a 
gloomy  sleep,  perhaps  filled  with  mournful  dreams,  there 
is  no  other  supreme  good  but  a  day  of  enjoyment  and 
victory.  They  glut  themselves,  shutting  their  eyes  to 
the  issue,  except  that  they  may  be  swallowed  up  on  the 
morrow.  That  is  the  master-thought  of  Doctor  Faustus, 
the  greatest  of  Marlowe's  dramas :  to  satisfy  his  soul, 
no  matter  at  what  price,  or  with  what  results : 

"  A  sound  magician  is  a  mighty  god.  .  .  . 
How  am  I  glutted  with  conceit  of  this  !  .  .  . 
I'll  have  t'iem  fly  to  India  for  gold, 
Ransack  the  ocean  for  orient  pearl.  .  .  . 
I'll  have  them  read  me  strange  philosophy, 
And  tell  the  secrets  of  all  foreign  kings  ; 
I'll  have  them  wall  all  Germany  with  brass, 
And  make  swift  Rhine  circle  fair  Wertenberg.  .  .  , 

1   Edward  the  Second,  last  scene,  p.  288. 


394  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

Like  lions  shall  they  guard  us  when  we  please ; 
Like  Almain  rutters  with  their  horsemen's  staves, 
Or  Lapland  giants,  trotting  by  our  sides ; 
Sometimes  like  women,  or  unwedded  maids, 
Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 
Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  queen  of  love." 1 

What  brilliant  dreams,  what  desires,  what  vast  or 
voluptuous  wishes,  worthy  of  a  Roman  Caesar  or  an 
eastern  poet,  eddy  in  this  teeming  brain !  To  satiate 
them,  to  obtain  four-and-twenty  years  of  power,  Faustus 
gives  his  soul,  without  fear,  without  need  of  temptation, 
at  the  first  outset,  voluntarily,  so  sharp  is  the  prick 
within : 

"  Had  I  as  many  souls  as  there  be  stars, 
I'd  give  them  all  for  Mephistophilis. 
By  him  I'll  be  great  emperor  of  the  world, 
And  make  a  bridge  thorough  the  moving  air.  .  .  . 
Why  shouldst  thou  not?  Is  not  thy  soul  thine  own?"2 

And  with  that  he  gives  himself  full  swing :  he  wants 
to  know  everything,  to  have  everything;  a  book  in 
which  he  can  behold  all  herbs  and  trees  which  grow  upon 
the  earth ;  another  in  which  shall  be  drawn  all  the  con- 
stellations and  planets ;  another  which  shall  bring  him 
gold  when  he  wills  it,  and  "  the  fairest  courtezans :" 
another  which  summons  "men  in  armour"  ready  to 
execute  his  commands,  and  which  holds  "whirlwinds, 
tempests,  thunder  and  lightning  "  chained  at  his  disposal. 
He  is  like  a  child,  he  stretches  out  his  hands  for  every- 
thing shining ;  then  grieves  to  think  of  hell,  then  lets 
himself  be  diverted  by  shows : 

1  Marlowe,  Doctor  Faustus,  i.  p.  9,  et  passim.  . 
*  Ibid.  pp.  22,  29. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  395 

"  Faustus.     O  this  feeds  my  soul ! 
Lucifer.     Tut,  Faustus,  in  hell  is  all  manner  of  delight 
Faustus.     Oh,  might  I  see  hell,  and  return  again, 
How  happy  were  I  then  !  "  .  .  .  ,l 

He  is  conducted,  being  invisible,  over  the  whole  world : 
lastly  to  Rome,  amongst  the  ceremonies  of  the  Pope's 
court.  Like  a  schoolboy  during  a  holiday,  he  has  in- 
satiable eyes,  he  forgets  everything  before  a  pageant,  he 
amuses  himself  in  playing  tricks,  in  giving  the  Pope  a 
box  on  the  ear,  in  beating  the  monks,  in  performing 
magic  tricks  before  princes,  finally  in  drinking,  feasting, 
filling  his  belly,  deadening  his  thoughts.  In  his  trans- 
port he  becomes  an  atheist,  and  says  there  is  no  hell, 
that  those  are  "  old  wives '  tales."  Then  suddenly  the 
sad  idea  knocks  at  the  gates  of  his  brain. 
"  I  will  renounce  this  magic,  and  repent  .  .  . 

My  heart's  so  harden'd,  I  cannot  repent : 

Scarce  can  I  name  salvation,  faith,  or  heaven, 

But  fearful  echoes  thunder  in  mine  ears, 
'  Faustus,  thou  art  damn'd  ! '  then  swords,  and  knives, 

Poison,  guns,  halters,  and  envenom'd  steel 

Are  laid  before  me  to  despatch  myself ; 

And  long  ere  this  I  should  have  done  the  deed, 

Had  not  sweet  pleasure  conquer'd  deep  despair. 

Have  not  I  made  blind  Homer  sing  to  me 

Of  Alexander's  love  and  (Enon's  death  I 

And  hath  not  he,  that  built  the  walls  of  Thebes 

With  ravishing  sound  of  his  melodious  harp, 

Made  music  with  my  Mephistophilis  ? 

Why  should  I  die,  then,  or  basely  despair  t  . 

I  am  resolv'd  ;  Faustus  shall  ne'er  repent — 

Come  Mephistophilis,  let  us  dispute  again, 

And  argue  of  divine  astrology. 

1  Marlowe.  Doctor  Faustus,  i.  p.  43. 


396  THE  KENA1SSANCE.  BOOK  u. 

Tell  me,  are  there  many  heavens  above  the  moon  t 
Are  all  celestial  bodies  but  one  globe, 
As  is  the  substance  of  this  centric  earth  ?  .  .  .  " l 
"  One  thing  ...  let  me  crave  of  thee 
To  glut  the  longing  of  my  heart's  desire.  .  .  . 
Was  this  the  face  that  launch' d  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  ? 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss  ! 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul :  see,  where  it  flies  ! — 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again. 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heaven  is  in  these  lips, 
And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena.  .  .  . 
0  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars  !  "  2 

*  Oh,  my  God,  I  would  weep !  but  the  devil  draws  in 
my  tears.  Gush  forth  blood,  instead  of  tears  !  yea,  life 
and  soul !  Oh,  he  stays  iny  tongue  !  I  would  lift  up 
my  hands ;  but  see,  they  hold  them,  they  hold  them ; 
Lucifer  and  Mephistophilis."  .  .  . 3 

"  Ah,  Faustus, 

Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 
And  then  thou  must  be  damn'd  perpetually  ! 
Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come.  .  .  . 
The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike, 
The  devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  damn'd. 
Oh,  I'll  leap  up  to  my  God  ! — Who  pulls  me  down  ? — 
See,  see,  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament ! 
One  drop  would  save  my  soul,  half  a  drop  :  ah,  my  Christ, 
Ah,  rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ, 
Yet  will  I  call  on  him.  .  .  . 
Ah,  half  the  hour  is  past !  'twill  all  be  past  anon.  ,  . 

1  Marlowe,  Doctor  Faiistus,  p.  37.          *  Ibid.  p.  75.  3  Itnd.  p.  78. 


CHAP.  n.  THE  THEATRE.  397 

Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 

A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  last  be  sav'd.  .  .  . 

It  strikes,  it  strikes.  .  .  . 

Oh  soul,  he  chang'd  into  little  water-drops, 

And  fall  into  the  ocean,  ne'er  be  found  !  " l 

There  is  the  living,  struggling,  natural,  personal  man, 
not  the  philosophic  type  which  Goethe  has  created,  but 
a  primitive  and  genuine  man,  hot-headed,  fiery,  the  slave 
of  his  passions,  the  sport  of  his  dreams,  wholly  engrossed 
in  the  present,  moulded  by  his  lusts,  contradictions,  and 
follies,  who  amidst  noise  and  starts,  cries  of  pleasure 
and  anguish,  rolls,  knowing  it  and  willing  it,  down  the 
slope  and  crags  of  his  precipice.  The  whole  English 
drama  is  here,  as  a  plant  in  its  seed,  and  Marlowe  is  to 
Shakspeare  what  Perugino  was  to  Eaphael. 

V. 

Gradually  art  is  being  formed ;  and  toward  the  close 
of  the  century  it  is  complete.  Shakspeare,  Beaumont, 
Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  Webster,  Massinger,  Ford,  Middle- 
ton,  Heywood,  appear  together,  or  close  upon  each  other, 
a  new  and  favoured  generation,  flourishing  largely  in  the 
soil  fertilised  by  the  efforts  of  the  generation  which 
preceded  them.  Thenceforth  the  scenes  are  developed 
and  assume  consistency ;  the  characters  cease  to  move 
all  of  a  piece,  the  drama  is  no  longer  like  a  piece  of 
statuary.  The  poet  who  a  little  while  ago  knew  only 
how  to  strike  or  kill,  introduces  now  a  sequence  of 
situation  and  a  rationale  in  intrigue.  He  begins  to 
prepare  the  way  for  sentiments,  to  forewarn  us  of  events, 
to  combine  effects,  and  we  find  a  theatre  at  last,  the 

1  Marlowe,  Doctor  Faustus,  p.  80. 


398  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  it. 

most  complete,   the  most  life-like,  and  also  the  most 
strange  that  ever  existed. 

We  must  follow  its  formation,  and  regard  the  drama 
when  it  was  formed,  that  is,  in  the  minds  of  its  authors. 
What  was  going  on  in  these  minds  ?  What  sorts  of 
ideas  were  born  there,  and  how  were  they  born  ?  In 
the  first  place,  they  see  the  event,  whatever  it  be,  and 
they  see  it  as  it  is ;  I  mean  that  they  have  it  within 
themselves,  with  its  persons  and  details,  beautiful  and 
ugly,  even  dull  and  grotesque.  If  it  is  a  trial,  the  judge 
is  there,  in  their  minds,  in  his  place,  with  his  physi- 
ognomy and  his  warts ;  the  plaintiff  in  another  place, 
with  his  spectacles  and  brief-bag ;  the  accused  is 
opposite,  stooping  and  remorseful ;  each  with  his  friends, 
cobblers,  or  lords ;  then  the  buzzing  crowd  behind,  all 
with  their  grinning  faces,  their  bewildered  or  kindling 
eyes.1  It  is  a  genuine  trial  which  they  imagine,  a  trial 
like  those  they  have  seen  before  the  justice,  where  they 
screamed  or  shouted  as  witnesses  or  interested  parties, 
with  their  quibbling  terms,  their  pros  and  cons,  the  scrib- 
blings,  the  sharp  voices  of  the  counsel,  the  stamping  of 
feet,  the  crowding,  the  smell  of  their  fellow-men,  and 
so  forth.  The  endless  myriads  of  circumstances  which 
accompany  and  influence  every  event,  crowd  round  that 
event  in  their  heads,  and  not  merely  the  externals,  that 
is,  the  visible  and  picturesque  traits,  the  details  of 
colour  and  costume,  but  also,  and  chiefly,  the  internals, 
that  is,  the  motions  of  anger  and  joy,  the  secret  tumult 
of  the  soul,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  ideas  and  passions  which 
are  expressed  by  the  countenance,  swell  the  veins,  make 
a  man  to  grind  his  teeth,  to  clench  his  fists,  which  urge 

1  See  the  trial  of  Vittoria  Corombona,  of  Virginia  in  "Webster,  of 
Coriolanus  and  Julius  Casar  in  Shakspeare. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  399 

him  on  or  restrain  him.  They  see  all  the  details,  the 
tides  that  sway  a  man,  one  from  without,  another  from 
within,  one  through  another,  one  within  another,  both 
together  without  faltering  and  without  ceasing.  And 
what  is  this  insight  but  sympathy,  an  imitative  sym- 
pathy, which  puts  us  in  another's  place,  which  carries 
over  their  agitations  to  our  own  breasts,  which  makes 
our  life  a  little  world,  able  to  reproduce  the  great  one 
in  abstract  ?  Like  the  characters  they  imagine,  poets 
and  spectators  make  gestures,  raise  their  voices,  act. 
No  speech  or  story  can  show  their  inner  mood,  but  it 
is  the  scenic  effect  which  can  manifest  it.  As  some 
men  invent  a  language  for  their  ideas,  so  these  act  and 
mimic  them ;  theatrical  imitation  and  figured  repre- 
sentation is  their  genuine  speech :  all  other  expression, 
the  lyrical  song  of  ^Eschylus,  the  reflective  symbolism 
of  Goethe,  the  oratorical  development  of  Racine,  would 
be  impossible  for  them.  Involuntarily,  instantaneously, 
without  forecast,  they  cut  life  into  scenes,  and  carry  it 
piecemeal  on  the  boards ;  this  goes  so  far,  that  often  a 
mere  character  becomes  an  actor,1  playing  a  part  within 
a  part ;  the  scenic  faculty  is  the  natural  form  of  their 
mind.  Beneath  the  effort  of  this  instinct,  all  the  acces- 
sory parts  of  the  drama  come  before  the  footlights  and 
expand  before  our  eyes.  A  battle  has  been  fought ; 
instead  of  relating  it,  they  bring  it  before  the  public, 
trumpets  and  drums,  pushing  crowds,  slaughtering  com- 
batants. A  shipwreck  happens ;  straightway  the  ship 
is  before  the  spectator,  with  the  sailors'  oaths,  the 
technical  orders  of  the  pilot.  -  Of  all  the  details  of 

1  Falstaff  in   Shakspeare  ;  the  queen  in  London,  by  Greene  and 
Decker  ;  Rosalind  in  Shakspeare. 


400  THE  KENAISSANCE.  BOOK  a 

human  life,1  tavern-racket  and  statesmen's  councils, 
scullion's  talk  and  court  processions,  domestic  tender- 
ness and  pandering, — none  is  too  small  or  too  lofty : 
these  things  exist  in  life — let  them  exist  on  the  stage, 
each  in  full,  in  the  rough,  atrocious,  or  absurd,  just  as 
they  are,  no  matter  how.  Neither  in  Greece,  nor  Italy, 
nor  Spain,  nor  France,  has  an  art  been  seen  which  tried 
so  boldly  to  express  the  soul,  and  its  innermost  depths 
— the  truth,  and  the  whole  truth. 

How  did  they  succeed,  and  what  is  this  new  art 
which  tramples  on  all  ordinary  rules  ?  It  is  an  art  for 
all  that,  since  it  is  natural ;  a  great  art,  since  it  embraces 
more  things,  and  that  more  deeply  than  others  do,  like 
the  art  of  Eembrandt  and  Eubens ;  but  like  theirs,  it  is 
a  Teutonic  art,  and  one  whose  every  step  is  in  con- 
trast with  those  of  classical  art.  What  the  Greeks 
and  Romans,  the  originators  of  the  latter,  sought  in 
everything,  was  charm  and  order.  Monuments,  statues, 
and  paintings,  the  theatre,  eloquence  and  poetry,  from 
Sophocles  to  Racine,  they  shaped  all  their  work  in 
the  same  mould,  and  attained  beauty  by  the  same 
method.  In  the  infinite  entanglement  and  complexity 
of  things,  they  grasped  a  small  number  of  simple  ideas, 
which  they  embraced  in  a  small  number  of  simple 
representations,  so  that  the  vast  confused  vegetation  of 
life  is  presented  to  the  mind  from  that  time  forth, 
pruned  and  reduced,  and  perhaps  easily  embraced 
at  a  single  glance.  A  square  of  walls  with  rows  of 
columns  all  alike ;  a  symmetrical  group  of  draped  or 
undraped  forms ;  a  young  man  standing  up  and  raising 
one  arm  ;  a  wounded  wamor  who  will  not  return  to  the 

1  In  Webster's  Dudiess.  of  Malfi  there  is  an  admirable  accouche- 
ment scene. 


V-I.  P-400. 


FRANCIS   BEAUMONT 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  401 

camp,  though  they  beseech  him :  this,  in  their  noblest 
epoch,  was  their  architecture,  their  painting,  their 
sculpture,  and  their  theatre.  No  poetry  but  a  few 
sentiments  not  very  intricate,  always  natural,  not  toned 
down,  intelligible  to  all ;  no  eloquence  but  a  continuous 
argument,  a  limited  vocabulary,  the  loftiest  ideas  brought 
down  to  their  sensible  origin,  so  that  children  can  under- 
stand such  eloquence  and  feel  such  poetry ;  and  in  this 
sense  they  are  classical.1  In  the  hands  of  Frenchmen, 
the  last  inheritors  of  the  simple  art,  these  great  legacies 
of  antiquity  undergo  no  change.  If  poetic  genius  is 
less,  the  structure  of  mind  has  not  altered.  Eacine 
puts  on  the  stage  a  sole  action,  whose  details  he 
adjusts,  and  whose  course  he  regulates;  no  incident, 
nothing  unforeseen,  no  appendices  or  incongruities ;  no 
secondary  intrigue.  The  subordinate  parts  are  effaced  ; 
at  the  most  four  or  five  principal  characters,  the  fewest 
possible ;  the  rest,  reduced  to  the  condition  of  confidants, 
take  the  tone  of  their  masters,  and  merely  reply  to  them. 
All  the  scenes  are  connected,  and  flow  insensibly  one 
into  the  other;  and  every  scene,  like  the  entire  piece, 
has  its  order  and  progress.  The  tragedy  stands  out 
symmetrically  and  clear  in  the  midst  of  human  life,  like 
a  complete  and  solitary  temple  which  limns  its  regular 
outline  on  the  luminous  azure  of  the  sky.  In  England 
all  is  different.  All  that  the  French  call  proportion  and 
fitness  is  wanting;  Englishmen  do  not  trouble  them- 
selves about  them,  they  do  not  need  them.  There  is 
no  unity;  they  leap  suddenly  over  twenty  years,  or 

1  This  is,  in  fact,  the  English  view  of  the  French  mind,  which  is 
doubtless  a  refinement,  many  times  refined,  of  the  classical  spirit.  But 
M.  Taine  has  seemingly  not  taken  into  account  such  products  as  the 
Medea  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  works  of  Aristophanes  and  the  Latin 
sensualists  on  the  other. — TR. 

VOL.  I.  2  D 


402  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

five  hundred  leagues.  There  are  twenty  scenes  in  an 
act — we  stumble  without  preparation  from  one  to  the 
other,  from  tragedy  to  buffoonery;  usually  it  appears 
as  though  the  action  gained  no  ground;  the  different 
personages  waste  their  time  in  conversation,  dreaming, 
displaying  their  character.  We  were  moved,  anxious 
for  the  issue,  and  here  they  bring  us  in  quarrelling 
servants,  lovers  making  poetry.  Even  the  dialogue  and 
speeches,  which  we  would  think  ought  particularly  to 
be  of  a  regular  and  continuous  flow  of  engrossing  ideas, 
remain  stagnant,  or  are  scattered  in  windings  and 
deviations.  At  first  sight  we  fancy  we  are  not  advanc- 
ing, we  do  not  feel  at  every  phrase  that  we  have  made 
a  step.  There  are  none  of  those  solid  pleadings,  none 
of  those  conclusive  discussions,  which  every  moment 
add  reason  to  reason,  objection  to  objection ;  people 
might  say  that  the  different  personages  only  knew  how 
to  scold,  to  repeat  themselves,  and  to  mark  time.  And 
the  disorder  is  as  great  in  general  as  in  particular  things. 
They  heap  a  whole  reign,  a  complete  war,  an  entire  novel, 
into  a  drama ;  they  cut  up  into  scenes  an  English  chro- 
nicle or  an  Italian  novel :  this  is  all  their  art ;  the 
events  matter  little ;  whatever  they  are,  they  accept 
them.  They  have  no  idea  of  progressive  and  individual 
action.  Two  or  three  actions  connected  endwise,  or 
entangled  one  within  another,  two  or  three  incomplete 
endings  badly  contrived,  and  opened  up  again ;  no 
machinery  but  death,  scattered  right  and  left  and 
unforeseen  :  such  is  the  logic  of  their  method.  The 
fact  is,  that  our  logic,  the  Latin,  fails  them.  Their  mind 
does  not  march  by  the  smooth  and  straightforward  paths 
of  rhetoric  and  eloquence.  It  reaches  the  same  end, 
but  by  other  approaches.  It  is  at  once  more  compre- 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  403 

hensive  and  less  regular  than  ours.  It  demands  a 
conception  more  complete,  but  less  consecutive.  It 
proceeds,  not  as  with  us,  by  a  line  of  uniform  steps, 
but  by  sudden  leaps  and  long  pauses.  It  does  not  rest 
satisfied  with  a  simple  idea  drawn  from  a  complex  fact, 
but  demands  the  complex  fact  entire,  with  its  number- 
less particularities,  its  interminable  ramifications.  It 
sees  in  man  not  a  general  passion — ambition,  anger,  or 
love;  not  a  pure  quality  —  happiness,  avarice,  folly; 
but  a  character,  that  is,  the  imprint,  wonderfully  com- 
plicated, which  inheritance,  temperament,  education, 
calling,  age,  society,  conversation,  habits,  have  stamped 
on  every  man ;  an  incommunicable  and  individual 
imprint,  which,  once  stamped  in  a  man,  is  not  found 
again  in  any  other.  It  sees  in  the  hero  not  only 
the  hero,  but  the  .individual,  with  his  manner  of 
walking,  drinking,  swearing,  blowing  his  nose;  with 
the  tone  of  his  voice,  whether  he  is  thin  or  fat;1  and 
thus  plunges  to  the  bottom  of  things,  with  every  look, 
as  by  a  miner's  deep  shaft.  This  sunk,  it  little  cares 
whether  the  second  shaft  be  two  paces  or  a  hundred 
from  the  first ;  enough  that  it  reaches  the  same  depth, 
and  serves  equally  well  to  display  the  inner  and  invis- 
ible layer.  Logic  is  here  from  beneath,  not  from  above. 
It  is  the  unity  of  a  character  which  binds  the  two 
actions  of  the  personage,  as  the  unity  of  an  impression 
connects  the  two  scenes  of  a  drama.  To  speak  exactly, 
the  spectator  is  like  a  man  whom  we  should  lead  along  a 
wall  pierced  at  separate  intervals  with  little  windows ; 
at  every  window  he  catches  for  an  instant  a  glimpse  of 
a  new  landscape,  with  its  million  details  :  the  walk  over, 

1  See  Hamlet,  Coriolaniis,  Hotspur.     The  queen  in  Hamlet  (v.  2) 
says  :    "  He  (llauilet)'s  fat,  aud  scant  of  breath." 


404  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

if  he  is  of  Latin  race  and  training,  he  finds  a  medley  of 
images  jostling  in  his  head,  and  asks  for  a  map  that  he 
may  recollect  himself;  if  he  is  of  German  race  and 
training,  he  perceives  as  a  whole,  by  natural  concentra- 
tion, the  wide  country  which  he  has  only  seen  piece- 
meal. Such  a  conception,  by  the  multitude  of  details 
which  it  combines,  and  by  the  depth  of  the  vistas 
which  it  embraces,  is  a  half-vision  which  shakes  the 
whole  soul.  What  its  works  are  about  to  show  us  is, 
with  what  energy,  what  disdain  of  contrivance,  what 
vehemence  of  truth,  it  dares  to  coin  and  hammer  the 
human  medal ;  with  what  liberty  it  is  able  to  reproduce 
in  full  prominence  worn  out  characters,  and  the  ex- 
treme flights  of  virgin  nature. 

VI. 

Let  us  consider  the  different  personages  which  this 
art,  so  suited  to  depict  real  manners,  and  so  apt  to 
paint  the  living  soul,  goes  in  search  of  amidst  the  real 
manners  and  the  living  souls  of  its  time  and  country. 
They  are  of  two  kinds,  as  befits  the  nature  of  the 
drama:  one  which  produces  terror,  the  other  which 
moves  to  pity;  these  graceful  and  feminine,  those 
manly  and  violent.  All  the  differences  of  sex,  all  the 
extremes  of  life,  all  the  resources  of  the  stage,  are 
embraced  in  this  contrast;  and  if  ever  there  was  a 
complete  contrast,  it  is  here. 

The  reader  must  study  for  himself  some  of  these 
pieces,  or  he  will  have  no  idea  of  the  fury  into  which 
the  stage  is  hurled ;  force  and  transport  are  driven 
every  instant  to  the  point  of  atrocity,  and  further  still, 
if  there  be  any  further.  Assassinations,  poisonings, 
tortures,  outcries  of  madness  and  rngp ;  no  passion  and 


.  ir.  THE  THEATRE.  405 

no  suffering  are  too  extreme  for  their  energy  or  their 
effort.  Anger  is  with  them  a  madness,  ambition  a 
frenzy,  love  a  deliriivm.  Hippolyto,  who  has  lost  his 
mistress,  says,  "Were  thine  eyes  clear  as  mine,  thou 
might'st  behold  her,  watching  upon  yon  battlements  of 
stars,  how  I  observe  them."  l  Aretus,  to  be  avenged 
on  Valentinian,  poisons  him  after  poisoning  himself, 
and  with  the  death-rattle  in  his  throat,  is  brought  to 
his  enemy's  side,  to  give  him  a  foretaste  of  agony. 
Queen  Brunhalt  has  panders  with  her  on  the  stage, 
and  causes  her  two  sons  to  slay  each  other.  Death 
everywhere;  at  the  close  of  every  play,  all  the  great 
people  wade  in  blood :  with  slaughter  and  butcheries, 
the  stage  becomes  a  field  of  battle  or  a  churchyard.2 
Shall  I  describe  a  few  of  these  tragedies?  In  the 
Duke  of  Milan,  Francesco,  to  avenge  his  sister,  who  has 
been  seduced,  wishes  to  seduce  in  his  turn  the  Duchess 
Marcelia,  wife  of  Sforza,  the  seducer;  he  desires  her, 
he  will  have  her;  he  says  to  her,  with  cries  of  love 
and  rage : 

"  For  with  this  arm  I'll  swim  through  seas  of  blood, 
Or  make  a  bridge,  arch'd  with  the  bones  of  men, 
But  I  will  grasp  my  aims  in  you,  my  dearest, 
Dearest,  and  best  of  women  !  "  3 

For  he  wishes  to  strike  the  duke  through  her,  whether 
she  lives  or  dies,  if  not  by  dishonour,  at  least  by 
murder ;  the  first  is  as  good  as  the  second,  nay  better, 

1  Middleton,  The  Honest  Whore,  part  i.  iv.  1. 

2  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Valentinian,  Thierry  and  Theodoret.    See 
Massinger's  Picture,  which  resembles  Musset's  Barberine.     Its  crudity, 
the  extraordinary  and  repulsive  energy,  will  show  the  difference  of  the 
two  ages. 

3  Massinger's  Works,  ed.  H.  Coleridge,  1859,  Duke  of  Milan,  ii.  1. 


406  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

for  so  he  will  do  a  greater  injury.  He  calumniates 
her,  and  the  duke,  who  adores  her,  kills  her;  then, 
being  undeceived,  loses  his  senses,  will  not  believe 
she  is  dead,  has  the  body  brought  in,  kneels  before  it, 
rages  and  weeps.  He  knows  now  the  name  of  the 
traitor,  and  at  the  thought  of  him  he  swoons  or  raves  : 

'  I'll  follow  him  to  hell,  but  I  will  find  him, 
And  there  live  a  fourth  Fury  to  torment  him. 
Then,  for  this  cursed  hand  and  arm  that  guided 
The  wicked  steel,  I'll  have  them,  joint  by  joint, 
With  burning  irons  sear'd  off,  which  I  will  eat, 
I  being  a  vulture  fit  to  taste  such  carrion."  l 

Suddenly  he  gasps  for  breath,  and  falls ;  Francesco  has 
poisoned  him.  The  duke  dies,  and  the  murderer  is  led 
to  torture.  There  are  worse  scenes  than  this ;  to  find 
sentiments  strong  enough,  they  go  to  those  which 
change  the  very  nature  of  man.  Massinger  puts  on  the 
stage  a  father  who  judges  and  condemns  his  daughter, 
stabbed  by  her  husband ;  Webster  and  Ford,  a  son  who 
assassinates  his  mother;  Ford,  the  incestuous  loves  of 
a  brother  and  sister.2  Irresistible  love  overtakes  them ; 
the  ancient  love  of  Pasiphae  and  Myrrha,  a  kind  of 
madness-like  enchantment,  and  beneath  which  the  will 
entirely  gives  way.  Giovanni  says : 

"  Lost !  I  am  lost !     My  fates  have  doom'd  my  death  ! 
The  more  I  strive,  I  love  ;  the  more  I  love, 
The  less  I  hope  :  I  see  my  ruin  certain.  .  .  . 
I  have  even  wearied  heaven  with  pray'rs,  dried  up 

1  Duke  of  Milan,  v.  2. 

*  Massinger,  The  Fatal  Dowry  ;  Webster  and  Ford,  A  late  Murther 
of  the  Sonne  upon  the  Mother  (a  play  not  extant)  ;  Ford,  'Tis  pity  she's 
a  Whore.  See  also  Ford's  Broken  Heart,  with  its  sublime  scenes  of 
agony  and  madness. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  407 

The  spring  of  my  continual  tears,  even  starv'd 
My  veins  with  daily  fasts  :  what  wit  or  art 
Could  counsel,  I  have  practis'd  ;  but,  alas  ! 
I  find  all  these  but  dreams,  and  old  men's  tales, 
To  fright  unsteady  youth  :  I  am  still  the  same ; 
Or  I  must  speak,  or  burst."  l 

What  transports  follow !  what  fierce  and  bitter  joys, 
and  how  short  too,  how  grievous  and  mingled  with 
anguish,  especially  for  her !  She  is  married  to  another. 
Head  for  yourself  the  admirable  and  horrible  scene 
which  represents  the  wedding  night.  She  is  pregnant, 
and  Soranzo,  the  husband,  drags  her  along  the  ground, 
with  curses,  demanding  the  name  of  her  lover : 

"  Come  strumpet,  famous  whore  ?  .  .  . 

Harlot,  rare,  notable  harlot, 
That  with  thy  brazen  face  maintain'st  thy  sin,, 
Was  there  no  man  in  Parma  to  be  bawd 
To  your  loose  cunning  whoredom  else  but  I  ? 
Must  your  hot  itch  and  plurisy  of  lust, 
The  heyday  of  your  luxury,  be  fed 
Up  to  a  surfeit,  and  could  none  but  I 
Be  pick'd  out  to  be  cloak  to  your  close  tricks, 
Your  belly-sports  ? — Now  I  must  be  the  dad 
To  all  that  gallimaufry  that  is  stufFd 
In  thy  corrupted  bastard-bearing  womb  1 
Say,  must  1 1 

Annabella.  Beastly  man  ?  why,  'tis  thy  fate. 
I  su'd  not  to  thee.  .  .  . 

S.  Tell  me  by  whom."2 

She  gets  excited,  feels  and  cares  for  nothing  more, 
refuses  to  tell  the  name  of  her  lover,  and  praises  him 

1  Ford's  Works,  ed.  H.  Coleridge,,  1859, '  Tis  pity  she's  a  Whan,  I  3. 
•  Ibid  iv.  3. 


408  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

in  the  following  words.  This  praise  in  the  midst  of 
danger  is  like  a  rose  she  has  plucked,  and  of  which  the 
odour  intoxicates  her : 

"A.  Soft !  'twas  not  in  my  bargain. 
Yet  somewhat,  sir,  to  stay  your  longing  stomach 
I  am  content  t'  acquaint  you  with  THE  man, 
The  more  than  man,  that  got  this  sprightly  boy, — 
(For  'tis  a  boy,  and  therefore  glory,  sir, 
Your  heir  shall  be  a  son.) 

S.  Damnable  monster  ? 

A.  Nay,  an  you  will  not  hear,  I'll  speak  no  more. 

S.  Yes,  speak,  and  speak  thy  last. 

A.  A  match,  a  match  ?  .  .  . 
You,  why  you  are  not  worthy  once  to  name 
His  name  without  true  worship,  or,  indeed, 
Unless  you  kneel'd  to  hear  another  name  him. 

S.  What  was  he  call'd  ? 

A.  We  are  not  come  to  that ; 
Let  it  suffice  that  you  shall  have  the  glory 
To  father  what  so  brave  a  father  got.  .  .  . 

S.  Dost  thou  laugh  ? 

Come,  whore,  tell  me  your  lover,  or,  by  truth 
I'll  hew  thy  flesh  to  shreds  ;  who  is't  1 "  l 

She  laughs ;  the  excess  of  shame  and  terror  has  gi  ven 
her  courage;  she  insults  him,  she  sings;  so  like  a 
woman  I 

"  A.   (Sings)  Che  morte  piu  dolce  die  morire  per  amors. 
S.  Thus  will  I  pull  thy  hair,  and  thus  I'll  drag 
Thy  lust  be-leper'd  body  through  the  dust.  .  .  . 

(Hales  her  up  and  dmvn) 
A.  Be  a  gallant  hangman.  .  .  . 

I  leave  revenge  behind,  and  thou  shalt  feel  't.  .  .  . 

1  'Tispity  she's  a  Whore,  iv.  8. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  409 

(To  Vasquez.)  Pish,  do  not  beg  for  me,  I  prize  my  life 
As  nothing ;  if  the  man  will  needs  be  mad, 
Why,  let  him  take  it." 1 

In  the  end  all  is  discovered,  and  the  two  lovers  know 
they  must  die.  For  the  last  time,  they  see  each  other 
in  Annabella's  chamber,  listening  to  the  noise  of  the 
feast  below  which  shall  serve  for  their  funeral-feast 
Giovanni,  who  has  made  his  resolve  like  a  madman,  sees 
Annabella  richly  dressed,  dazzling.  He  regards  her  in 
silence,  and  remembers  the  past.  He  weeps  and  says : 

"  These  are  the  funeral  tears, 
Shed  on  your  grave  ;  these  furrow'd-up  my  cheeks 
When  first  I  lov'd  and  knew  not  how  to  woo.  .  .  . 
Give  me  your  hand  :  how  sweetly  life  doth  run 
In  these  well-colour'd  veins  !     How  constantly 
These  palms  do  promise  health  !  .  .  . 
Kiss  me  again,  forgive  me.  .  .  .  Farewell." 2  .  .  . 

He  then  stabs  her,  enters  the  banqueting  room,  with  her 
heart  upon  his  dagger : 

"  Soranzo  see  this  heart,  which  was  thy  wife's. 
Thus  I  exchange  it  royally  for  thine."  s 

He  kills  him,  and  casting  himself  on  the  swords  of 
banditti,  dies.  It  would  seem  that  tragedy  could  go 
no  further. 

But  it  did  go  further ;  for  if  these  are  melodramas, 
they  are  sincere,  composed,  not  like  those  of  to-day,  by 
Grub  Street  writers  for  peaceful  citizens,  but  by  impas- 
sioned men,  experienced  in  tragical  arts,  for  a  violent, 
over-fed  melancholy  race.  From  Shakspeare  to  Milton, 
Swift,  Hogarth,  no  race  has  been  more  glutted  with  coarse 

1  'Tis  pity  she's  a  Whore,  iv.  3.        a  Ibid.  v.  5.       *  Ibid.  v.  6. 


410  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

expressions  and  horrors,  and  its  poets  supply  them  plenti- 
fully; Ford  less  so  than  Webster;  the  latter  a  sombre 
man,  whose  thoughts  seem  incessantly  to  be  haunting 
tombs  and  charnel-houses.  "  Places  in  court,"  he  says, 
are  but  like  beds  in  the  hospital,  where  this  man's  head 
lies  at  that  man's  foot,  and  so  lower  and  lower." l  Such 
are  his  images.  No  one  has  equalled  Webster  in  creat- 
ing desperate  characters,  utter  wretches,  bitter  misan- 
thropes,2 in  blackening  and  blaspheming  human  life, 
above  all,  in  depicting  the  shameless  depravity  and 
refined  ferocity  of  Italian  manners.3  The  Duchess  of 
Malfi  has  secretly  married  her  steward  Antonio,  and 
her  brother  learns  that  she  has  children ;  almost  mad4 
with  rage  and  wounded  pride,  he  remains  silent,  wait- 
ing until  he  knows  the  name  of  the  father;  then  he 
arrives  all  of  a  sudden,  means  to  kill  her,  but  so  that 
she  shall  taste  the  lees  of  death.  She  must  suffer  much, 
but  above  all,  she  must  not  die  too  quickly  !  She  must 
suffer  in  mind ;  these  griefs  are  worse  than  the  body's. 
He  sends  assassins  to  kill  Antonio,  and  meanwhile  comes 
to  her  in  the  dark,  with  affectionate  words ;  pretends  to 

1  Webster's  Works,  ed.  Dyce,  1857,  Duchess  of  Malfi,  i.  1. 
8  The  characters  of  Bosola,  Flaminio. 

'  See  Stendhal  Chronicles  of  Italy,  The  Cenci,  The  Duchess  of  Pal- 
liano,  and  all  the  biographies  of  the  time ;  of  the  Borgiaa,  of  Bianca 
Capello,  of  Vittoria  Accoramboni. 

4  Ferdinand,  one  of  the  brothers,  says  (ii.  5)  : 

"  I  would  have  their  bodies 
Burnt  in  a  coal-pit  with  the  ventage  stopp'd, 
That  their  curs'd  smoke  might  not  ascend  to  heaven  ; 
Or  dip  the  sheets  they  lie  in  in  pitch  or  sulphur, 
Wrap  them  in't,  and  then  light  them  as  a  match  ; 
Or  else  to-boil  their  bastard  to  a  eullis, 
And  give't  his  lecherous  father  to  renew 
The  sin  of  his  back. " 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  411 

be  reconciled,  arid  suddenly  shows  her  waxen  figures 
covered  with  wounds,  whom  she  takes  for  her  slaughtered 
husband  and  children.  She  staggers  under  the  blow, 
and  remains  in  gloom  without  crying  out  Then  she 

says : 

"  Good  comfortable  fellow, 
Persuade  a  wretch  that's  broke  upon  the  wheel 
To  have  all  his  bones  new  set ;  entreat  him  live 
To  be  executed  again.     Who  must  despatch  me  ?  .  .  . 

Bosola.  Come,  be  of  comfort,  I  will  save  your  life. 

Duchess,  Indeed,  I  have  not  leisure  to  tend 
So  small  a  business. 

B.  Now,  by  my  life,  I  pity  you. 
D.  Thou  art  a  fool,  then, 

To  waste  thy  pity  on  a  thing  so  wretched 

As  cannot  pity  itself.     I  am  full  of  daggers."  * 

Slow  words,  spoken  in  a  whisper,  as  in  a  dream,  or  as 
if  she  were  speaking  of  a  third  person.  Her  brother 
sends  to  her  a  company  of  madmen,  who  leap  and  howl 
and  rave  around  her  in  mournful  wise ;  a  pitiful  sight, 
calculated  to  unseat  the  reason ;  a  kind  of  foretaste  of 
hell.  She  says  nothing,  looking  upon  them ;  her  heart 
is  dead,  her  eyes  fixed,  with  vacant  stare : 

Cariola.  What  think  you  of,  madam  ? 
Duchess.  Of  nothing: 
When  I  muse  thus,  I  sleep. 

C.  Like  a  madman,  with  your  eyes  open  ? 

D.  Dost  thou  think  we  shall  know  one  another 
In  the  other  world  1 

C.  Yes,  out  of  question. 

D.  0  that  it  were  possible  we  might 

But  hold  some  two  days'  conference  with  the  dead  I 

1  Duchess  of  Malf.t  iv,  1. 


412  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

From  them  I  should  learn  somewhat,  I  am  sure, 

I  never  shall  know  here.     I'll  tell  thee  a  miracle ; 

I  am  not  mad  yet,  to  my  cause  of  sorrow  : 

The  heaven  o'er  my  head  seems  made  of  molten  brass, 

The  earth  of  flaming  sulphur,  yet  I  am  not  mad. 

I  am  acquainted  with  sad  misery 

As  the  tann'd  galley-slave  is  with  his  oar."  *  .  .  . 

In  this  state,  the  limbs,  like  those  of  one  who  has  been 
newly  executed,  still  quiver,  but  the  sensibility  is  worn 
out ;  the  miserable  body  only  stirs  mechanically ;  it 
has  suffered  too  much.  At  last  the  gravedigger  comes 
with  executioners,  a  coffin,  and  they  sing  before  her  a 
funeral  dirge : 

"Duchess.  Farewell,  Cariola  .  .  . 
I  pray  thee,  look  thou  giv'st  my  little  boy 
Some  syrup  for  his  cold,  and  let  the  girl 
Say  her  prayers  ere  she  sleep. — Now,  what  you  please : 
What  death  1 

Bosola.  Strangling;  here  are  your  executioners. 

D.  I  forgive  them  : 

The  apoplexy,  catarrh,  or  cough  o'  the  lungs 
Would  do  as  much  as  they  do.  ...  My  body 
Bestow  upon  my  women,  will  you  ?  .  .  . 
Go,  tell  my  brothers,  when  I  am  laid  out, 
They  then  may  feed  in  quiet." 2 

After  the  mistress  the  maid;  the  latter  cries  and 
struggles : 

"  Cariola.  I  will  not  die  ;  I  must  not ;  I  am  contracted 
To  a  young  gentleman. 

1st  Executioner.  Here's  your  wedding  ring. 

1  Jhichess  of  Malfi,  iv.  2.  2  Ibid. 


CHAP.  n.  THE  THEATRE.  413 

C.  If  you  kill  me  now, 
I  am  damn'd.     I  have  not  been  at  confession 
This  two  years. 

B.  When?1 

C.  I  am  quick  with  child."  2 

They  strangle  her  also,  and  the  two  children  of  the 
duchess.  Antonio  is  assassinated;  the  cardinal  and 
his  mistress,  the  duke  and  his  confidant,  are  poisoned 
or  butchered ;  and  the  solemn  words  of  the  dying,  in 
the  midst  of  this  butchery,  utter,  as  from  funereal 
trumpets,  a  general  curse  upon  existence : 

"  We  are  only  like  dead  walls  or  vaulted  graves, 
That,  ruin'd  yield  no  echo.     Fare  you  well.  .  .  . 

0,  this  gloomy  world  ! 
In  what  a  shadow,  or  deep  pit  of  darkness, 
Doth  womanish  and  fearful  mankind  live  ! "  3 

"  In  all  our  quest  of  greatness, 
Like  wanton  boys,  whose  pastime  &  their  care, 
We  follow  after  bubbles  blown  in  the  air. 
Pleasure  of  life,  what  is't  1  only  the  good  hours 
Of  an  ague ;  merely  a  preparative  to  rest, 
To  endure  vexation.  .  .  . 
Whether  we  fall  by  ambition,  blood,  or  lust, 
Like  diamonds,  we  are  cut  with  our  own  dust."4 

You  will  find  nothing  sadder  or  greater  from  the  Edda 
to  Lord  Byron. 

We  can  well  imagine  what  powerful  characters  are 
necessary  to  sustain  these  terrible  dramas.  All  these 
personages  are  ready  for  extreme  acts ;  their  resolves 
break  forth  like  blows  of  a  sword ;  we  follow,  meet  at 

1  "When"  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  equivalent  to  "make 
haste,"  very  common  among  the  old  English  dramatists.—  Th. 
a  Duchtss  of  Malfi,  iv.  2.  »  Ibid,  v.  5.  *  Ibid.  v.  4  and  5. 


414  THE  RENAISSAKCE.  BOOK  «. 

every  change  of  scene  their  glowing  eyes,  wan  lips,  the 
starting  of  their  muscles,  the  tension  of  their  whole 
frame.  Their  powerful  will  contracts  their  violent 
hands,  and  their  accumulated  passion  breaks  out  in 
thunder-bolts,  which  tear  and  ravage  all  around  them, 
and  in  their  own  hearts.  We  know  them,  the  heroes 
of  this  tragic  population,  lago,  Richard  III.,  Lady  Mac- 
beth, Othello,  Coriolanus,  Hotspur,  full  of  genius,  courage, 
desire,  generally  mad  or  criminal,  always  self-driven  to 
the  tomb.  There .  are  as  many  around  Shakspeare  as 
in  his  own  works.  Let  me  exhibit  one  character  more, 
written  by  the  same  dramatist,  Webster.  No  one, 
except  Shakspeare,  has  seen  further  into  the  depths  of 
diabolical  and  unchained  nature.  The  "White  Devil" 
is  the  name  which  he  gives  to  his  heroine.  His 
Vittoria  Corombona  receives  as  her  lover  the  Duke  of 
Brachiano,  and  at  the  first  interview  dreams  of  the  issue : 

"  To  pass  away  the  time,  I'll  tell  your  grace 
A  dream  I  had  last  night." 

It  is  certainly  well  related,  and  still  better  chosen,  of 
deep  meaning  and  very  clear  import.  Her  brother 
Flaminio  says,  aside : 

"  Excellent  devil  !  she  hath  taught  him  in  a  dream 
To  make  away  his  duchess  and  her  husband."  l 

So,  her  husband,  Camillo,  is  strangled,  the  Duchess 
poisoned,  and  Vittoria,  accused  of  the  two  crimes,  is 
brought  before  the  tribunal.  Step  by  step,  like  a  soldier 
brought  to  bay  with  his  back  against  a  wall,  she  defends 
herself,  refuting  and  defying  advocates  and  judges, 
incapable  of  blenching  or  quailing,  clear  in  mind,  ready 

1  Vittoria  Corombona.  i.  2. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  415 

in  word,  amid  insults  and  proofs,  even  menaced  with 
death  on  the  scaffold.  The  advocate  begins  to  speak 
in  Latin. 


-ia.  Pray  iny  lord,  let  him  speak  his  usual  tongue  ; 
I'll  make  no  answer  else. 

Francisco  de  Afed-icis.  Why,  you  understand  Latin. 

V.  I  do,  sir  ;  but  amongst  this  auditory 
Which  come  to  hear  my  cause,  the  half  or  more 
May  be  ignorant  in't." 

She  wants  a  duel,  bare-breasted,  in  open  day,  and  chal- 
lenges the  advocate  : 

"  I  am  at  the  mark,  sir  :  111  give  aim  to  you, 
And  tell  you  how  near  you  shoot." 

She  mocks  his  legal    phraseology,   insults  him,  with 
biting  irony  : 

"  Surely,  my  lords,  this  lawyer  here  hath  swallow'd 

Some  pothecaries'  bills,  or  proclamations  ; 

And  now  the  hard  and  undigestible  words 

Come  up,  like  stones  we  use  give  hawks  for  physic  . 

Why,  this  is  Welsh  to  Latin." 

Then,  to  the  strongest  adjuration  of  the  judges  : 

"  To  the  point, 

Find  me  but  guilty,  sever  head  from  body, 
We'll  part  good  friends  ;  I  scorn  to  hold  my  life 
At  yours,  or  any  man's  entreaty,  sir.  .  .  . 
These  are  but  feigned  shadows  of  my  evils  : 
Terrify  babes,  my  lord,  with  painted  devils  ; 
I  am  past  such  needless  palsy.     For  your  names 
Of  whore  and  murderess,  they  proceed  from  you, 
As  if  a  man  should  spit  against  the  wind  ; 
The  filth  returns  in's  face."  a 
1  Webster  Dyce,  1857,  Vittoria  Corombona,  p.  20-2L 


416  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

Argument  for  argument:  she  has  a  parry  for  every 
blow  :  a  parry  and  a  thrust : 

"  But  take  you  your  course:  it  seems  you  have  beggar'd  me  first, 
And  now  would  fain  undo  me.     I  have  houses, 
Jewels,  and  a  poor  remnant  of  crusadoes  : 
Would  those  would  make  you  charitable  1 " 

Then,  in  a  harsher  voice : 

"  In  faith,  my  lord,  you  might  go  pistol  flies ; 
The  sport  would  be  more  noble." 

They  condemn  her  to  be  shut  up  in  a  house  of  con- 
vertites : 

"  V.  A  house  of  con  vertites  1     What's  that  1 

Monticelso.  A  house  of  penitent  whores. 

F.  Do  the  noblemen  in  Rome 
Erect  it  for  their  wives,  that  I  am  sent 
To  lodge  there?"1 

The  sarcasm  comes  home  like  a  sword-thrust;  then 
another  behind  it;  then  cries  and  curses.  She  will 
not  bend,  she  will  not  weep.  She  goes  off  erect,  bitter 
and  more  haughty  than  ever : 

"  I  will  not  weep  ; 

No,  I  do  scorn  to  call  up  one  poor  tear 
To  fawn  on  your  injustice  :  bear  me  hence 
Unto  this  house  of — .    what's  your  mitigating  title  ? 

Mont.  Of  convertites. 

V.  It  shall  not  be  a  house  ot  convertites  ; 
My  mind  shall  make  it  honester  to  me 
Than  the  Pope's  palace,  and  more  peaceable 
Than  thy  soul,  though  thou  art  a  cardinal."  2 

1  Vittoria  Cnronibmia,  Hi.  2,  p.  23.  a  Ibid.  p.  24. 


V-I.  P-4J6. 


JOHN   FLETCHER 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  417 

Against  her  furious  lover,  who  accuses  her  of  unfaith- 
fulness, she  is  as  strong  as  against  her  judges;  she 
copes  with  him,  casts  in  his  teeth  the  death  of  his 
duchess,  forces  him  to  beg  pardon,  to  marry  her ;  she 
will  play  the  comedy  to  the  end,  at  the  pistol's  mouth, 
with  the  shamelessness  and  courage  of  a  courtesan  and 
an  empress;1  snared  at  last,  she  will  be  just  as  brave 
and  more  insulting  when  the  dagger's  point  threatens 
her: 

"  Yes,  I  shall  welcome  death 

As  princes  do  some  great  ambassadors ; 

I'll  meet  thy  weapon  half  way.  .  .  .  'Twas  a  manly  blow  j 

The  next  thou  giv'st,  murder  some  sucking  infant ; 

And  then  thou  wilt  be  famous."  2 

When  a  woman  unsexes  herself,  her  actions  transcend 
man's,  and  there  is  nothing  which  she  will  not  suffer 
or  dare. 

VII. 

Opposed  to  this  band  of  tragic  characters,  with  their 
distorted  features,  brazen  fronts,  combative  attitudes, 
is  a  troop  of  sweet  and  timid  figures,  pre-eminently 
tender-hearted,  the  most  graceful  and  loveworthy,  whom 
it  has  been  given  to  man  to  depict.  In  Shakspeare 
you  will  meet  them  in  Miranda,  Juliet,  Desdemona, 
Virgilia,  Ophelia,  Cordelia,  Imogen;  but  they  abound 
also  in  the  others ;  and  it  is  a  characteristic  of  the  race 
to  have  furnished  them,  as  it  is  of  the  drama  to  have 
represented  them.  By  a  singular  coincidence,  the 
women  are  more  of  women,  the  men  more  of  men,  here 
than  elsewhere.  The  two  natures  go  each  to  its  ex- 

1  Compare  Mme.  Marneffe  in  Balzac's  La  Cousine  PefCc. 

3  Vittoria  Corombona,  T.  last  scene,  pp.  49-50. 
VOL.  I.  2  E 


418  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n, 

treme :  in  the  one  to  boldness,  the  spirit  of  enterprise 
and  resistance,  the  warlike,  imperious,  and  unpolished 
character ;  in  the  other  to  sweetness,  devotion,  patience, 
inextinguishable  affection,1 — a  thing  unknown  in  dis- 
tant lands,  in  France  especially  so :  a  woman  in 
England  gives  herself  without  drawing  back,  and  places 
her  glory  and  duty  in  obedience,  forgiveness,  adoration, 
wishing  and  professing  only  to  be  melted  and  absorbed 
daily  deeper  and  deeper  in  him  whom  she  has  freely 
and  for  ever  chosen.2  It  is  this,  an  old  German  instinct, 
which  these  great  painters  of  instinct  diffuse  here,  one 
and  all :  Penthea,  Dorothea,  in  Ford  and  Greene ; 
Isabella  and  the  Duchess  of  Malfi,  in  "Webster ;  Bianca, 
Ordella,  Arethusa,  Juliana,  Euphrasia,  Amoret,  and 
others,  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher :  there  are  a  score  of 
them  who,  under  the  severest  tests  and  the  strongest 
temptations,  display  this  wonderful  power  of  self-aban- 
donment and  devotion.3  The  soul,  in  this  race,  is  at 
once  primitive  and  serious.  Women  keep  their  purity 
longer  than  elsewhere.  They  lose  respect  less  quickly ; 
weigh  worth  and  characters  less  suddenly :  they  are 
less  apt  to  think  evil,  and  to  take  the  measure  of  their 
husbands.  To  this  day,  a  great  lady,  accustomed 
to  company,  blushes  in  the  presence  of  an  unknown 

1  Hence  the  happiness  and  strength  of  the  marriage  tie.     In  France 
it  is  but  an  association  of  two  comrades,  tolerably  alike  and  tolerably 
equal,  which  gives  rise  to  endless  disturbance  and  bickering. 

2  See  the  representation  of  this  character  throughout  English  and 
German  literature.     Stendhal,  an  acute  observer,  saturated  with  Italian 
and  French  morals  and  ideas,  is  astonished  at  this  phenomenon.     He 
understands  nothing  of  this  kind  of  devotion,   "this  slavery  which 
English  husbands  have  had  the  wit  to  impose  on  their  wives  under  the 
name  of  duty."     These  are  "the  manners  of  a  seraglio."     See  also 
Corinne,  by  Madame  de  Stael. 

a  A  perfect  woman  already  :  meek  and  patient. — HETWOOD. 


CHAP.  D.  THE  THEATRE.  419 

man,  and  feels  bashful  like  a  little  girl :  the  blue  eyes 
are  dropt,  and  a  child-like  shame  flies  to  her  rosy  cheeks. 
English  women  have  not  the  smartness,  the  boldness  of 
ideas,  the  assurance  of  bearing,  the  precocity,  which 
with  the  French  make  of  a  young  girl,  in  six  months, 
a  woman  of  intrigue  and  the  queen  of  a  drawing-room.1 
Domestic  life  and  obedience  are  more  easy  to  them. 
More  pliant  and  more  sedentary,  they  are  at  the  same 
time  more  concentrated  and  introspective,  more  disposed 
to  follow  the  noble  dream  called  duty,  which  is  hardly 
generated  in  mankind  but  by  silence  of  the  senses. 
They  are  not  tempted  by  the  voluptuous  sweetness 
\vhich  in  southern  countries  is  breathed  out  in  the 
climate,  in  the  sky,  in  the  general  spectacle  of  things ; 
which  dissolves  every  obstacle,  which  causes  privation 
to  be  looked  upon  as  a  snare  and  virtue  as  a  theory. 
They  can  rest  content  with  dull  sensations,  dispense 
with  excitement,  endure  weariness ;  and  in  this  mono- 
tony of  a  regulated  existence,  fall  back  upon  themselves, 
obey  a  pure  idea,  employ  all  the  strength  of  their  hearts 
in  maintaining  their  moral  dignity.  Thus  supported 
by  innocence  and  conscience,  they  introduce  into  love 
a  profound  and  upright  sentiment,  abjure  coquetry, 
vanity,  and  flirtation :  they  do  not  lie  nor  simper. 
When  they  love,  they  are  not  tasting  a  forbidden  fruit, 
but  are  binding  themselves  for  their  whole  life.  Tims 
understood,  love  becomes  almost  a  holy  thing;  the 
spectator  no  longer  wishes  to  be  spiteful  or  to  jest ; 
women  do  not  think  of  their  own  happiness,  but  of 
that  of  the  loved  ones ;  they  aim  not  at  pleasure,  but 

1  See,  by  way  of  contrast,  all  Moliere's  women,  so  French ;  even 
Agues  au.l  little  Louison. 


420  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  it. 

at  devotion.  Euphrasia,  relating  her  history  to  Phil- 
aster,  says : 

"  My  father  oft  would  speak 
Your  worth  and  virtue ;  and,  as  I  did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive,  I  did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  prais'd  ;  hut  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a  maiden  longing,  to  he  lost 
As  soon  as  found ;  till  sitting  in  my  window, 
Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god, 
I  thought,  (hut  it  was  you)  enter  our  gates. 
My  blood  flew  out,  and  back  again  as  fast, 
As  I  had  puft'd  it  forth  and  suck'd  it  in 
Like  breath  :  Then  was  I  call'd  away  in  haste 
To  entertain  you.     Never  was  a  man, 
Heav'd  from  a  sheep-cote  to  a  sceptre,  rais'd 
So  high  in  thoughts  as  I :  You  left  a  kiss 
Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 
From  you  for  ever.     I  did  hear  you  talk, 
Far  above  singing  !     After  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  search'd 
What  stirr'd  it  so  :  Alas  !  I  found  it  love ; 
Yet  far  from  lust ;  for  could  I  but  have  liv'd 
In  presence  of  you,  I  had  had  my  end."  1 

She  had  disguised  herself  as  a  page,2  followed  him,  was 
his  servant ;  what  greater  happiness  for  a  woman  than 
to.  serve  on  her  knees  the  man  she  loves  ?  She 
let  him  scold  her,  threaten  her  with  death,  wound  her. 

"  Blest  be  that  hand  ! 
It  meant  me  well.     Again,  for  pity's  sake  ! "  3 

Do  what  he  will,  nothing  but  words  of  tenderness  and 

1  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Works,  ed.  G.  Colinan,  3  vols.,  1811, 
Philaster,  Y. 

2  Like  Kaled  in  Byron's  Lara,  8  Philaster,  iy. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  421 

adoration  can  proceed  from  this  heart,  these  wan  lips. 
Moreover,  she  takes  upon  herself  a  crime  of  which  lie  is 
accused,  contradicts  him  when  he  asserts  his  guilt,  is 
ready  to  die  in  his  place.  Still  more,  she  is  of  use  to 
him  with  the  Princess  Arethusa,  whom  he  loves ;  she 
justifies  her  rival,  brings  about  their  marriage,  and  asks 
no  other  thanks  but  that  she  may  serve  them  both. 
And  strange  to  say,  the  princess  is  not  jealous. 

"  Euphrasia.  Never,  Sir,  will  I 

Marry ;  it  is  a  thing  within  my  vow  : 
But  if  I  may  have  leave  to  serve  the  princess, 
To  see  the  virtues  of  her  lord  and  her, 
I  shall  have  hope  to  live. 

Arethusa.  .  .  .  Come,  live  with  me ; 

Live  free  as  I  do.     She  that  loves  my  lord, 
Curst  be  the  wife  that  hates  her  !  "  l 

What  notion  of  love  have  they  in  this  country? 
Whence  happens  it  that  all  selfishness,  all  vanity,  all 
rancour,  every  little  feeling,  either  personal  or  base,  flees 
at  its  approach  ?  How  comes  it  that  the  soul  is  given 
up  wholly,  without  hesitation,  without  reserve,  and  only 
dreams  thenceforth  of  prostrating  and  annihilating  itself, 
as  in  the  presence  of  a  god  ?  Biancha,  thinking  Cesario 
ruined,  offers  herself  to  him  as  his  wife;  and  learning 
that  he  is  not  so,  gives  him  up  straightway,  without  a 
murmur : 

"  Biancha.  So  dearly  I  respected  both  your  fame 
And  quality,  that  I  would  first  have  perish 'd 
In  my  sick  thoughts,  than  e'er  have  given  consent 
To  have  undone  your  fortunes,  by  inviting 
A  marriage  with  so  mean  a  one  as  I  am : 

1  PKilastcr.  v. 


422  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n 

I  should  have  died  sure,  and  no  creature  known 

The  sickness  that  had  kill'd  me.  .  .  .  Now  since  I  know 

There  is  no  difference  'twixt  your  birth  and  mine, 

Not  much  'twixt  our  estates  (if  any  be, 

The  advantage  is  on  my  side)  I  come  willingly 

To  tender  you  the  first-fruits  of  my  heart, 

And  am  content  t'  accept  you  for  my  husband, 

Now  when  you  are  at  lowest  .  .  . 

Cesario.  Why,  Biancha, 

Report  has  cozen'd  thee  ;  I  am  not  fallen 
From  my  expected  honours  or  possessions, 
Tho'  from  the  hope  of  birth-right. 

B  Are  you  not  1 

Then  I  am  lost  again  !  I  have  a  suit  too  ; 
You'll  grant  it,  if  you  be  a  good  man.  .  .  . 
Pray  do  not  talk  of  aught  what  I  have  said  t'ye.  .  . 

.  .  .  Pity  me  ; 

But  never  love  me  more  !  .  .  .  I'll  pray  for  you, 
That  you  may  have  a  virtuous  wife,  a  fair  one  ; 
And  when  I'm  dead  ...     C.  Fy,  fy  !     B.  Think  on  mo 

sometimes, 

With  mercy  for  this  trespass  !     C.  Let  us  kiss 
At  parting,  as  at  coming  !     B.  This  I  have 
As  a  free  dower  to  a  virgin's  grave, 
All  goodness  dwell  with  you  !  " l 

Isabella,  Brachiano's  duchess  is  betrayed,  insulted  by 
her  faithless  husband ;  to  shield  him  from  the  vengeance 
of  her  family,  she  takes  upon  herself  the  blame  of  the 
rupture,  purposely  plays  the  shrew,  and  leaving  him  at 
peace  with  his  courtesan,  dies  embracing  his  picture. 
Arethusa  allows  herself  to  be  wounded  by  Philaster, 
stays  the  people  who  would  hold  back  the  murderer's 
arm,  declares  that  he  has  done  nothing,  that  it  is  not 

1  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn,  iv. 


CHAP.  IT.  THE  THEATRE.  423 

he,  prays  for  him,  loves  him  in  spite  of  all,  even  to  the 
end,  as  though  all  his  acts  were  sacred,  as  if  he  had 
power  of  life  and  death  over  her.  Ordella  devotes  her- 
self, that  the  king,  her  husband,  may  have  children;1 
she  offers  herself  for  a  sacrifice,  simply,  without  grand 
words,  with  her  whole  heart : 

"  Ordella.  Let  it  be  what  it  may  then,  what  it  dare, 
I  have  a  mind  will  hazard  it. 

Thierry.  But,  hark  you  ; 

What  may  that  woman  merit,  makes  this  blessing  ? 

0.  Only  her  duty,  sir.     T.  'Tis  terrible  ! 

0.  'Tis  so  much  the  more  noble. 

T.  'Tis  full  of  fearful  shadows  !     0.  So  is  sleep,  sir, 
Or  anything  that's  merely  ours,  and  mortal ; 
We  were  begotten  gods  else  :  but  those  fears, 
Feeling  but  once  the  fires  of  nobler  thoughts, 
Fly,  like  the  shapes  of  clouds  we  form,  to  nothing 

T.  Suppose  it  death  !     0.  I  do.     T.  And  endless  parting 
With  all  we  can  call  ours,  with  all  our  sweetness, 
With  youth,  strength,  pleasure,  people,  time,  nay  reason  1 
For  in  the  silent  grave,  no  conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel,  nothing's  heard, 
Nor  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust  and  an  endless  darkness  :  and  dare  you,  woman, 
Desire  this  place  ?     0.  'Tis  of  all  sleeps  the  sweetest : 
Children  begin  it  to  us,  strong  men  seek  it, 
And  kings  from  height  of  all  their  painted  glories 
Fall,  like  spent  exhalations,  to  this  centre.  .  .  . 

T.  Then  you  can  suffer  ?     0.  As  willingly  as  say  it 

T.  Martell,  a  wonder  ! 
Here  is  a  woman  that  dares  die. — Yet,  tell  me, 

1  Beaumont  and   Fletcher,    Thierry  and   Theodorct,    The 
Tragedy,  Philaster.     See  also  the  part  of  Lucina  in  Valentinian. 


424  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

Are  you  a  wife  ?     0.  I  am,  sir.     T.  And  have  children? — 
She  sighs  and  weeps  !     0.  Oh,  none,  sir.    T.  Dare  you  venture 
For  a  poor  barren  praise  you  ne'er  shall  hear, 
To  part  with  these  sweet  hopes  ?     0.  With  all  but  Heaven." l 

Is  not  this  prodigious  ?  Can  you  understand  how  one 
human  being  can  thus  be  separated  from  herself,  forget 
and  lose  herself  in  another?  They  do  so  lose  them- 
selves, as  in  an  abyss.  When  they  love  in  vain  and 
without  hope,  neither  reason  nor  life  resist;  they  lan- 
guish, grow  mad,  die  like  Ophelia.  Aspasia,  forlorn, 

"  Walks  discontented,  with  her  watry  eyes 
Bent  on  the  earth.     The  unfrequented  woods 
Are  her  delight ;  and  when  she  sees  a  bank 
Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she  with  a  sigh  will  tell 
Her  servants  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in  ;  and  make  her  maids 
Pluck  'em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 
She  carries  with  her  an  infectious  grief, 
That  strikes  all  her  beholders  ;  she  will  sing 
The  mournful'st  things  that  ever  ear  hath  heard, 
And  sigh  and  sing  again  ;  and  when  the  rest 
Of  our  young  ladies,  in  their  wanton  blood, 
Tell  mirthful  tales  in  course,  that  fill  the  room 
With  laughter,  she  will  with  so  sad  a  look 
Bring  forth  a  story  of  the  silent  death 
Of  some  forsaken  virgin,  which  her  grief 
Will  put  in  such  a  phrase,  that,  ere  she  end, 
She'll  send  them  weeping  one  by  one  away."  2 

Like  a  spectre  about  a  tomb,  she  wanders  for  ever  about 
the  remains  of  her  destroyed  love,  languishes,  grows  pale, 
swoons,  ends  by  causing  herself  to  be  killed.  Sadder 

1  Thierry  and  Theodoret,  iv.  1. 
1  Beaumont  and  Fletcheiy  The  Maid's  Tragedy,  L 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  425 

still  are  those  who,  from  duty  or  submission,  allow 
themselves  to  be  married,  while  their  heart  belongs  to 
another.  They  are  not  resigned,  do  not  recover,  like 
Pauline  in  Polyeiicte.  They  are  crushed  to  death.  Pen- 
thea,  in  Ford's  Broken  Heart,  is  as  upright,  but  not  so 
strong,  as  Pauline;  she  is  the  English  wife,  not  the 
Kornan,  stoical  and  calm.1  She  despairs,  sweetly, 
silently,  and  pines  to  death.  In  her  innermost  heart 
she  holds  herself  married  to  him  to  whom  she  has 
pledged  her  soul :  it  is  the  marriage  of  the  heart  which 
in  her  eyes  is  alone  genuine ;  the  other  is  only  disguised 
adultery.  In  marrying  Bassanes  she  has  sinned  against 
Orgilus ;  moral  infidelity  is  worse  than  legal  infidelity, 
and  thenceforth  she  is  fallen  in  her  own  eyes.  She  says 
to  her  brother : 

"  Pray,  kill  me.  ... 
Kill,  me,  pray  ;  nay,  will  ye  ] 

Ithocks.  How  does  thy  lord  esteem  thee  1    P.  Such  an  one 
As  only  you  have  made  me  ;  a  faith-breaker, 
A  spotted  whore  ;  forgive  me,  I  am  one — 
In  act,  not  in  desires,  the  gods  must  witness.  .  .  . 
For  she  that's  wife  to  Orgilus,  and  lives 
In  known  adultery  with  Bassanes, 
Is,  at  the  best,  a  whore.     Wilt  kill  me  now  ?  .  .  . 
The  handmaid  to  the  wages 
Of  country  toil,  drinks  the  untroubled  streams 

1  Pauline  says,  in  Corneille's  Polyeucte  (iii.  2) : 

"  Avant  qu'abandonner  raon  ame  a  mes  douleura, 
II  me  faut  essayer  la  force  de  mes  pleura  ; 
En  qualit4  de  femme  ou  de  fille,  j'espere 
Qu'ils  vaincront  un  epoux,  ou  flechiront  un  pire. 
Que  si  sur  1'un  et  1'autre  Us  manquent  de  pouvoir, 
Je  ne  prendrai  conseil  que  de  mon  desespoir. 
Apprends-moi  cependant  ce  qu'ils  ont  fait  au  temple." 

We  could  not  find  a  more  reasonable  and  reasoning  woman.    So  with 

Eliante,  and  Henriette,  in  Moliere. 


426  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

With  leaping  kids,  and  with  the  bleating  lambs, 
And  so  allays  her  thirst  secure  ;  whiles  I 
Quench  my  hot  sighs  with  fleetings  of  my  tears."1 

With  tragic  greatness,  from  the  height  of  her  incurable 
grief,  she  throws  her  gaze  on  life : 

"  My  glass  of  life,  sweet  princess,  hath  few  minutes 
Remaining  to  run  down  ;  the  sands  are  spent ; 
For  by  an  inward  messenger  I  feel 

The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certain.  .  .      Glories 
Of  human  greatness  are  but  pleasing  dreams, 
And  shadows  soon  decaying  ;  on  the  stage 
Of  my  mortality,  my  youth  hath  acted 
Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  length 
By  varied  pleasures,  sweeten'd  in  the  mixture, 
But  tragical  in  issue.  .  .  .  That  remedy 
Must  be  a  winding-sheet,  a  fold  of  lead, 
And  some  untrod-on  corner  in  the  earth."2 

There  is  no  revolt,  no  bitterness ;  she  affectionately  as- 
sists her  brother  who  has  caused  her  unhappiness ;  she 
tries  to  enable  him  to  win  the  woman  he  loves ;  femi- 
nine kindness  and  sweetness  overflow  in  her  in  the 
depths  of  her  despair.  Love  here  is  not  despotic, 
passionate,  as  in  southern  climes.  It  is  only  deep  and 
sad;  the  source  of  life  is  dried  up,  that  is  all;  she 
lives  no  longer,  because  she  cannot ;  all  go  by  degrees 
— health,  reason,  soul ;  in  the  end  she  becomes  mad, 
and  behold  her  dishevelled,  with  wide  staring  eyes,  with 
words  that  can  hardly  find  utterance.  For  ten  days 
she  has  not  slept,  and  will  not  eat  any  more ;  and  the 
same  fatal  thought  continually  afflicts  her  heart,  amidst 
vague  dreams  of  maternal  tenderness  and  happiness 

1  Ford's  Broken  Heart,  iii.  2.  a  Ibid.  iii.  &. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  427 

brought  to  nought,  which  come  and  go  in  her  mind  like 
phantoms : 

"  Sure,  if  we  were  all  sirens,  we  should  sing  pitifully, 
And  'twere  a  comely  music,  when  in  parts 
One  sung  another's  knell ;  the  turtle  sighs 
When  he  hath  lost  his  mate  ;  and  yet  some  say 
He  must  be  dead  first :  'tis  a  fine  deceit 
To  pass  away  in  a  dream  !  indeed,  I've  slept 
With  mine  eyes  open,  a  great  while.     No  falsehood 
Equals  a  broken  faith  j  there's  not  a  hair 
Sticks  on  my  head,  but,  like  a  leaden  plummet, 
It  sinks  me  to  the  grave  :  I  must  creep  thither ; 
The  journey  is  not  long.  .  .  . 
Since  I  was  first  a  wife,  I  might  have  been 
Mother  to  many  pretty  prattling  babes  ; 
They  would  have  smiled  when  I  smiled ;  and,  for  certain, 
I  should  have  cried  when  they  cried  : — truly,  brother, 
My  father  would  have  pick'd  me  out  a  husband, 
And  then  my  little  ones  had  been  no  bastards  ; 
But  'tis  too  late  for  me  to  marry  now, 
I  am  past  child-bearing  ;  'tis  not  my  fault  .  .  . 

Spare  your  hand ; 
Believe  me,  I'll  not  hurt  it.  ... 
Complain  not  though  I  wring  it  hard  :  I'll  kiss  it ; 
Oh,  'tis  a  fine  soft  palm  ! — hark,  in  thine  ear  ; 
Like  whom  do  I  look,  prithee  ? — nay,  no  whispering. 
Goodness  !  we  had  been  happy ;  too  much  happiness 
Will  make  folk  proud,  they  say.  .  .  . 
There  is  no  peace  left  for  a  ravish'd  wife, 
Widow'd  by  lawless  marriage  ;  to  all  memory 
Peuthea's,  poor  Penthea's  name  is  struinpeted.  .  .  . 
Forgive  me  ;  Oh  !  I  faint."  l 

She  dies,  imploring  that  some  gentle  voice  may  sing  her 

1  Ford's  Broken  Heart,  iv.  2. 


428  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n 

a  plaintive  air,  a  farewell  ditty,  a  sweet  funeral  song. 
I  know  nothing  in  the  drama  more  pure  and  touching. 
When  we  find  a  constitution  of  soul  so  new,  and 
capable  of  such  great  effects,  it  behoves  us  to  look  at 
the  bodies.  Man's  extreme  actions  come  not  from  his 
will,  but  his  nature. l  In  order  to  understand  the  great 
tensions  of  the  whole  machine,  we  must  look  upon  the 
whole  machine, — I  mean  man's  temperament,  the  man- 
ner in  which  his  blood  flows,  his  nerves  quiver,  his 
muscles  act:  the  moral  interprets  the  physical, and  human 
qualities  have  their  root  in  the  animal  species.  Consider 
then  the  species  in  this  case — namely,  the  race ;  for  the 
sisters  of  Shakspeare's  Ophelia  and  Virgilia,  Goethe's  Clara 
and  Margaret,  Otway's  Belvidera,  Eichardson's  Pamela, 
constitute  a  race  by  themselves,  soft  and  fair,  with  blue 
eyes,  lily  whiteness,  blushing,  of  timid  delicacy,  serious 
sweetness,  framed  to  yield,  bend,  cling.  Their  poets 
feel  it  clearly  when  they  bring  them  on  the  stage ;  they 
surround  them  with  the  poetry  which  becomes  them, 
the  murmur  of  streams,  the  pendent  willow-tresses,  the 
frail  and  humid  flowers  of  the  country,  so  like  them- 
selves : 

"  The  flower,  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose,  nor 
The  azure  harebell,  like  thy  veins  ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 
Out-sweeten'd  not  thy  breath."  ~ 

They  make  them  sweet,  like  the  south  wind,  which  with 
its  gentle  breath  causes  the  violets  to  bend  their  heads, 

1  Schopenhauer,  Metaphysics  of  Love  and  Death.  Swift  also  said 
that  death  and  love  are  the  two  things  in  which  man  is  fundamentally 
irrational.  In  fact,  it  is  the  species  and  the  instinct  which  are  displayed 
in  them,  not  the  will  and  the  individual. 

1  Oymbeline,  iv.  2. 


CHAP.  ii.  THE  THEATRE.  429 

abashed  at  the  slightest  reproach,  already  half  bowed 
down  by  a  tender  and  dreamy  melancholy. ]  PhiJaster, 
speaking  of  Euphrasia,  whom  he  takes  to  be  a  page,  and 
who  has  disguised  herself  in  order  to  be  near  him, 
says  : 

"  Hunting  the  buck, 
I  found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain-side, 
Of  which  he  borrow'd  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 
And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears. 
A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself, 
Of  many  several  flowers,  bred  in  the  bay, 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order,  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  me  :  But  ever  when  he  turn'd 
His  tender  eyes  upon  'em,  he  would  weep, 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  'em  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I  asked  him  all  his  story. 
He  told  me,  that  his  parents  gentle  dy'd, 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields, 
Which  gave  him  roots ;  and  of  the  crystal  springs, 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses  ;  and  the  sun, 
Which  still,  he  thank'd  him,  yielded  him  his  light. 
Then  he  took  up  his  garland,  and  did  shew 
What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold, 
Did  signify  ;  and  how  all,  order'd  thus, 
Express'd  his  grief :  And,  to  my  thoughts,  did  read 
The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 
That  could  be  wish'd.  ...    I  gladly  entertaiu'd  him, 
Who  was  as  glad  to  follow  ;  and  have  got 
The  trustiest,  loving'st,  and  the  gentlest  boy 
That  ever  master  kept."2 

The  idyl  is  self-produced  among  these  human  flowers : 

the  dramatic  action  is  stopped  before  the  angelic  sweet- 

1  The  death  of  Ophelia,  the  obsequies  of  Imogen.          '  Pkikuttr,  L 


430  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  n. 

ness  of  their  tenderness  and  modesty.  Sometimes  even 
the  idyl  is  born  complete  and  pure,  and  the  whole 
theatre  is  occupied  by  a  sentimental  and  poetical  kind  of 
opera.  There  are  two  or  three  such  plays  in  Shakspeare ; 
in  rude  Jonson,  The  Sad  Shepherd;  in  Fletcher,  The 
Faithful  Shepherdess.  Ridiculous  titles  nowadays,  for 
they  remind  us  of  the  interminable  platitudes  of  d'TIrfe", 
or  the  affected  conceits  of  Florian ;  charming  titles,  if 
we  note  the  sincere  and  overflowing  poetry  which  they 
contain.  Arnoret,  the  faithful  shepherdess,  lives  in  an 
imaginary  country,  full  of  old  gods,  yet  English,  like 
the  dewy  verdant  landscapes  in  which  Rubens  sets  his 
uymphs  dancing: 

"  Thro1  yon  same  bending  plain 
That  flings  his  arms  down  to  the  main, 
And  thro'  these  thick  woods,  have  I  run, 
Whose  bottom  never  kiss'd  the  sun 
Since  the  lusty  spring  began."  .  .  . 

"  For  to  that  holy  wood  is  consecrate 
A  virtuous  well,  about  whose  flow'ry  banks 
The  nimble-footed  fairies  dance  their  rounds, 
By  the  pale  moon-shine,  dipping  oftentimes 
Their  stolen  children,  so  to  make  them  free 
From  dying  flesh,  and  dull  mortality."  .  .  .  x 

"  See  the  dew-drops,  how  they  kiss 
Ev'ry  little  flower  that  is  ; 
Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 
Like  a  rope  of  christal  beads. 
See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling, 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  Night  from  underground."  2 

1  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  L  3  Ibid,  ii 


CHAP,  n  THE  THEATRE.  431 

These  are  the  plants  and  the  aspects  of  the  ever  fresh 
English  country,  now  enveloped  in  a  pale  diaphanous 
mist,  now  glistening  under  the  absorbing  sun,  teeming 
with  grasses  so  full  of  sap,  so  delicate,  that  in  the  midst 
of  their  most  brilliant  splendour  and  their  most  luxuri- 
ant life,  we  feel  that  to-morrow  will  wither  them.  There, 
on  a  summer  night,  the  young  men  and  girls,  after  their 
custom,1  go  to  gather  flowers  and  plight  their  troth. 
Amoret  and  Perigot  are  together;  Amoret, 

"  Fairer  far 

Thau  the  chaste  blushing  morn,  or  that  fair  star 
That  guides  the  wand'ring  seaman  thro"  the  deep," 

modest  like  a  virgin,  and  tender  as  a  wife,  says  to 
Perigot : 

"  I  do  believe  thee  :  'Tis  as  hard  for  me 
To  think  thee  false,  and  harder,  than  for  thee 
To  hold  me  foul"  2 

Strongly  as  she  is  tried,  her  heart,  once  given,  never 
draws  back.  Perigot,  deceived,  driven  to  despair,  per- 
suaded that  she  is  unchaste,  strikes  her  with  his  sword, 
and  casts  her  bleeding  to  the  ground.  The  "  sullen  shep- 
herd "  throws  her  into  a  well ;  but  the  god  lets  fall  "  a 
drop  from  liis  wateiy  locks "  into  the  wound ;  the 
chaste  flesh  closes  at  the  touch  of  the  divine  water,  and 
the  maiden,  recovering,  goes  once  more  in  search  of  him 

she  loves : 

"  Speak,  if  thou  be  here, 
My  Perigot !  Thy  Amoret,  thy  dear, 
Calk  on  thy  loved  name.  .  .  .  'Tis  thy  friend, 
Thy  Amoret ;  come  hither,  to  give  end 

*  See  the  description  in  Nathan  Drake,  Shakspeare  and  his  Tim*. 
8  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  T)'£  Faithful  Shepherdess,  L 


432  THE  RENAISSANCE.  BOOK  IL 

To  these  consumings.     Look  up,  gentle  boy, 

I  have  forgot  those  pains  and  dear  annoy 

I  suffer'd  for  thy  sake,  and  am  content 

To  be  thy  love  again.     Why  hast  thou  rent 

Those  curled  locks,  where  I  have  often  hung 

Ribbons,  and  damask-roses,  and  have  flung 

Waters  distill'd  to  make  thee  fresh  and  gay, 

Sweeter  than  nosegays  on  a  bridal  day  ? 

Why  dost  thou  cross  thine  arms,  and  hang  thy  face 

Down  to  thy  bosom,  letting  fall  apace, 

From  those  two  little  Heav'ns,  upon  the  ground, 

Show'rs  of  more  price,  more  orient,  and  more  round, 

Than  those  that  hang  upon  the  moon's  pale  brow  1 

Cease  these  complainings,  shepherd  !  I  am  now 

The  same  I  ever  was,  as  kind  and  free, 

And  can  forgive  before  you  ask  of  me  : 

Indeed,  I  can  and  will."  l 

Who  could  resist  her  sweet  and  sad  smile  ?  Still  de- 
ceived, Perigot  wounds  her  again ;  she  falls,  but  without 
anger. 

"  So  this  work  hath  end  ! 

Farewell,  and  live !  be  constant  to  thy  friend 

That  loves  thee  next."  2 

A  nymph  cures  her,  and  at  last  Perigot,  disabused,  comes 
and  throws  himself  on  his  knees  before  her.  She 
stretches  out  her  arms ;  in  spite  of  all  that  he  had  done, 
she  was  not  changed : 

"  I  am  thy  love, 

Thy  Amoret,  for  evermore  thy  love  ! 
Strike  once  more  on  my  naked  breast,  I'll  prove 
As  constant  still.     Oh,  could'st  thou  love  me  yet, 
How  soon  could  I  my  former  griefs  forget1-! "  3 

1  The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  iv.  2  Ibid. 

3  Ibid.  v.     Compare,  as  an  illustration  of  the  contrast  of  races,  the 
Italian  pastorals,  Tasso's  AmiiUa,  Guarini's  fl  Pastor  fido,  etc. 


CHAP.  u.  THE  THEATRE.  433 

Such  are  the  touching  and  poetical  figures  which  these 
poets  introduce  in  their  dramas,  or  in  connection  with 
their  dramas,  amidst  murders,  assassinations,  the  clash 
of  swords,  the  howl  of  slaughter,  striving  against  the 
raging  men  who  adore  or  torment  them,  like  them  car- 
ried to  excess,  transported  by  their  tenderness  as  the 
others  by  their  violence;  it  is  a  complete  exposition, 
as  well  as  a  perfect  opposition  of  the  feminine  instinct 
ending  in  excessive  self-abandonment,  and  of  masculine 
harshness  ending  in  murderous  inflexibility.  Thus  built 
up  and  thus  provided,  the  drama  of  the  age  was 
enabled  to  bring  out  the  inner  depths  of  man,  and  to 
act  in  motion  the  most  powerful  human  emotions;  to 
bring  upon  the  stage  Hamlet  and  Lear,  Ophelia  and 
Cordelia,  the  death  of  Desdcmona  and  the  butcheries  of 
Macbeth. 


END  OF  VOL.  L 


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